


Heart's Desire (Ice and Fire)

by Ser_Thirst_A_Lot



Category: Naruto
Genre: (lots of) smut in later chapters, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Banter, Choose Your Own Adventure, Falling In Love, Flaily Madara, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Madara also needs a hug, Mokuton User Tsunade bc why not, Senju Tobirama Needs a Hug, Tobirama is a tease (accidentally... really), idiots to lovers, so does Hashirama, wait who invited the bijuu to the party?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot/pseuds/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot
Summary: A touch is all it takes, to find one’s soulmate, to initiate an exchange of chakra natures and powers that would later intermingle and make both of them stronger.Madaracravesthis—or at least thinks he does, until he awakens one morning sans Sharingan, his chakra alien andfreezing, and watches an angry Senju Tobirama crash into his room, glaring murder at Madara with what used to be his exclusive Mangekyō pattern.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 224
Kudos: 639





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> lmao guys as happy as i am that a so many of you voted on the survey (the summary of which can be found [here](https://louiserandom.tumblr.com/post/614109180698263552/the-madatobi-adventure-has-been-chosen)), i am REALLY stressed that this might not be as good, but i WILL try my absolute best and hope i won't disappoint
> 
> i have _pages_ of diagrams and chaotic graphs piled for this story, it's kinda wild XD it will be: long, ridiculous, but also a bit dangerous so i guess i'll warn you before the very important choices... maybe👀 
> 
> survey comment replies will be over [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> hope you enjoy this adventure! stay safe💙💙💙🧡🧡🧡

**MADARA**

Madara went to bed in a begrudgingly pleasant mood following the ostentatious celebrations Hashirama had organized to mark the first anniversary of Konoha’s founding.

He wakes up feeling parched, _freezing,_ muscles aching all over, like he’s been hit fist-first by a Susanoo or several.

And perfect eyesight.

Madara blinks.

No. No, that can’t be right.

There’s no familiar prickling pressure of the Sharingan’s chakra behind his eyes, so it should be impossible for him to see the world in such perfect clarity.

Except, he does. Madara looks at his hands, now trembling from the unrelenting cold. Fever, some kind of psychedelic poison, perhaps. He shuts his eyes for a few moments and reopens them, slowly. Every irksome scar on his palm, every little wrinkle on his blanket, almost every strand of wild bedhead hair is visible to Madara in a way nothing has been since his Mangekyo had awakened at sixteen.

He tries to activate it and fails. And that’s when it finally hits him.

 _Soulmate._ He sighs with no small measure of relief. _Right. No need to panic._

Just a harmless exchange of powers which would easily lead to Madara’s Chosen since they’d end up, presumably, with his dōjutsu and a very distinctive fire nature chakra. Another shiver runs through him. Oh, how he misses his chakra now.

Regardless, once he’s next to his soulmate, he should feel better. Presumably, they’re still in the confines of the village, the longer delay in the bond’s manifestation is an inconvenience of adult soulmate bonding that Madara will have to deal with.

The icepick jolts of pain in his muscles aren’t easy to ignore, but Madara stands all the same, rushing to the bathroom to make himself presentable, mentally running through the list of people he’d touched last evening. Unfortunately, a _lot._ Mostly handshakes, because he’ll never be quite as comfortable with casual touches as Izuna and Hashirama are, and it already takes a lot of his willpower to drop the gloves and expose the mess that is his fire-charred skin.

But _this_ is what he’s been waiting for, dreaming about since the times he was a starry-eyed child first hearing about the concept of partners made perfect for each other, chosen by fate. There was no harm in a platonic soulmate, of course, but Madara has secretly been craving his bond to be a romantic one. If only to feel, to _taste_ , to have the chance to cherish the intimate closeness everyone around him seems to enjoy, with or without a soulmate, while Madara struggles, miserably at that, to connect with _anyone_ on a deeper level than a shallow fling. He’d never admit that this is the reason he’s suddenly become less averse to handshakes and touchy-feely attitudes, but there’s no point lying to himself, at least.

“Fuck _._ ” The ache trickling through his veins gets so strong he has to pause mid-dressing and close his eyes to come down the force of it. _What is…_

“Godsdammit, Uchiha,” an _unfortunately_ familiar voice bellows from _within_ his house, for some inexplicable reason, “ _where are you?_ ”

The world is spinning somewhat uncomfortably as Madara’s eyes fly open and he stumbles out of the bathroom to face the intruder—none other Senju Tobirama crashing into his room, glaring murder at Madara with what used to be his exclusive Mangekyō pattern.

“ _Senju?_ ”

* * *

~~1) Maybe, Madara supposes, there is a tiny, infinitesimal advantage to self-deception.~~

~~“No,” he whispers, a shudder running through him from what he knows isn’t the nagging cold this time, “you _can’t_ be my soulmate.”~~

2) Madara stares. Perhaps rudely, but he allows himself the indulgence as his brain scrambles to find a half-coherent answer to what the _fuck_ is going on. “ _You’re_ my soulmate?”

~~**Click[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdFoTpIvkAObg5KSnExEuwJJMqjMR74NokS3NR40dtRjyu8Bw/viewform?usp=sf_link) to vote** ~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up - this is split into arcs, and i'll describe how every non-chosen option would have affected the plot at the end of each arc :3
> 
> survey comment replies updated over [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> enjoy!❤

_Madara stares. Perhaps rudely, but he allows himself the indulgence as his brain scrambles to find a half-coherent answer to what the fuck is going on._ “You’re _my soulmate?_ "

“Evidently, Uchiha, the gods have a strange sense of humor.” Tobirama narrows his eyes. “Now, care to explain why I’m suddenly near- _blind_?”

 _Ah,_ Madara’s brain supplies eloquently, _right._

“It’s the,” Madara stutters, because how does one explain that one of the most powerful and useful dōjutsu in existence also leads to blindness? “It’s the effect of the Sharingan. It affects eyesight.”

“And you didn’t _tell_ anyone?” Tobirama takes a step forward. Madara realizes, acutely, that he can feel the waves of anger radiating from the man. “Are you a complete idiot?”

Madara crosses his arms. “It’s none of your business, Senju, what I do and don’t do,” he says, barely managing to refrain from shouting.

“It is, apparently, because we’re bonded now,” Tobirama says, voice dangerously low, “I can barely see anything without this accursed thing,” he points to easily the most revered dōjutsu in existence, “your _pathetic_ excuse for a sensing ability doesn’t compensate for it _in the slightest_ and this migraine won't _go away_.”

“Well, deactivate it, genius,” Madara says, remembering his own suffering through the ache this morning that’s still wracking through his body. “And my sensing abilities—”

“Are bullshit,” Tobirama cuts him off, “and how would I know how to turn this thing off?”

“Oh.” Again, a show of eloquence. The fact honestly throws Madara off, because he can’t imagine having the Sharingan and not being able to intrinsically control it. “Just—just relax!”

“I can’t, Uchiha,” Tobirama growls, “because any time I focus on these godsdamned eyes, the pain only grows worse. I’m haunted by visions I can’t seem to stop—or unsee—and you want me to fucking relax?”

That is a fair point. He looks beyond distraught, just as agitated and disheveled as Madara—only that’s a look Madara’s never seen on him. Tobirama’s eyes gleam with a more potent red now and the deadly pattern engrained on them makes him look more threatening than usual, his hair is sticking at odd angles and so are his hastily thrown on clothes, his shirt barely tied, sandals askew, his attire showing so much skin when it’s usually barely visible.

Also, Hashirama had warned Madara that being near Tobirama is ‘unsafe’ when he starts to swear. Regardless, Madara only crosses his arms tighter and huffs; he will _not_ be intimidated.

“Yes,” he says, “I want you to calm down and act rationally like you claim you always do. Every second you use the Mangekyo, you’re only making it worse.”

“ _Worse?_ ” Another thing Madara has never seen the Senju express: panic. He takes a step back just as Madara takes one forward, raising his arms in a pacifying gesture. Panic and a Mangekyo with an unpredictable special ability never mixed well. “What do you mean—why wasn’t it a problem for Tōka when she and Izuna exchanged powers?”

“Because his is different,” Madara says. “He uses it less.”

“Why would you abuse it to this level then?” Tobirama’s new eyes were starting to bleed around the edges. Oh, _perfect_. "Do you have no sense of self-preservation?

“Senju, you need to calm down." Madara takes another tentative step towards him. "And if you have trouble remembering, just a year ago we were at war. I needed to.”

“You’re almost _blind_ ,” Tobirama says, as if Madara didn’t hear him the first time.

“Why would you care? Those are my eyes and I will ultimately deal with the consequences,” Madara growls.

“Because the consequence is you going blind, you idiot!” Tobirama explodes, even as he gasps and takes a few staggering steps back. He must have noticed the blood clouding his vision. And to top that, Madara feels familiar erratic energy gathering in the room. “What is…"

How does Izuna always calm him down from his rages?

“Listen, Senju,” Madara tries, approaching him slowly, “I get it, you’re upset, blindness, that’s—that’s bad. But we’ll talk about it,” he promises, “I’ll explain everything, and I’ll help, but you have to calm the fuck down.”

“How?” Tobirama is breathing heavily, Sharingan flitting wildly, unfocused.

“Choose any object in the room and focus on it, or, or on me.” Madara winces. He really doesn’t have Izuna’s talent for this. “And just—Senju, you’re not listening.”

“I can’t, Madara.” More shocking than Tobirama’s use of his first name is the intense surge of Tobirama’s chakra rippling through the room. Surprisingly, that suddenly makes Madara’s pain die down to a low buzz. “Everything’s—”

“Red and blurry and painful, I _know_ ,” Madara tries to ground him. “Kneading chakra into it isn’t how you deal with it.”

“The visions—”

“Aren’t real,” Madara lies, knowing that Tobirama is probably seeing figments of his memories, most likely not the pleasant kind.

“Madara, I can’t do this!” Tobirama shouts, all but huddled against the corner now. He’s hyperventilating, desperately trying to wipe away the blood only flowing harder from his sockets, and it’s all Madara can do to hope he doesn’t attempt to claw them out. “It’s getting—it’s—I…”

Madara watches him in a bit of a stupor. This isn’t like their usual shouting matches or heated arguments during yet another meeting where their interests clash. Tobirama is never vulnerable. He _shouldn’t_ be.

This isn’t _right_.

Part of Madara wants to touch him, knead their bonded chakra together and comfort him, while the other urges him to run away, to use the Hiraishin Tobirama so favors and escape this strange, unfamiliar mess.

* * *

  1. ~~Madara finds he has no idea what to do, and the _intimate_ knowledge of just how dangerous his Mangekyō can be keeps him frozen in place.~~
  2. Madara swears under his breath and, throwing caution and his own mounting panic to the wind, closes the distance between himself Tobirama, all but wrestling his trembling frame into a hug.



~~**Click** [ **here** ](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdirf6BVOW3KbEm7d8KVz-VTol15vHpxp6DMRxbp7eM36xsyg/viewform?usp=sf_link) **to vote**~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SORRY for the longer wait AND for the longass chapter XD these idiots wouldn't shut up >.> anyway, i'm really unsure and insecure about this one but hopefully it didn't turn out too stupid>.> (remember anonymous comments in the surveys are there for, among other things, anonymous criticism :D)
> 
> survey comment replies updated over [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoy! <3

_Madara swears under his breath and, throwing caution and his own mounting panic to the wind, closes the distance between himself Tobirama, all but wrestling his trembling frame into a hug._

Tobirama tenses up at once, his breath hitching, but doesn’t do much else to break the hold. Madara doesn’t die instantly, which is good, all things considered. The world doesn’t distort and disappear and there’s no hint of his Sharingan’s ability spontaneously acting up.

“What—” Tobirama finds his voice.

“You’re okay, Senju. Just breathe.”

Tobirama shifts against him, muscles twitching in a half-hearted attempt to break free, but Madara doesn’t allow him, only drawing him closer and wrapping him tighter in his arms.

“You’re okay,” Madara says with as much conviction as he can muster. “Don’t mind those visions and try to ignore the pain. You’re _going to be_ okay.” And that’s more of a truthful statement, because the way Tobirama keeps _shaking_ as he tries and fails to catch his breath is more than a little unnerving.

He’s _not_ supposed to be like this.

“You’re going to be okay,” he repeats, trying to calm the both of them, really, and to his surprise, it seems to be working, if just a little.

Tobirama doesn’t quite relax, but stays silent and doesn’t move, forcefully leveling out his breath as he squeezes his eyes shut and buries his head in the mess that is Madara’s unkempt hair. It’s a bit awkward, and Madara has no idea what to do with his hands, placing them stiffly on Tobirama’s shoulders. That makes their position _more awkward_ and Madara settles for his lower back, trying for soothing motions that just end up being stilted pats of sorts. That has him giving up entirely and ending up completely still, staring at a single point in the wall and willing his mind stop repeating its incessant, panicked mantra of _fuck._

A few still moments pass before Tobirama says, “Chakra.”

Madara blinks. “Chakra? What about it?”

To Madara’s steadily increasing surprise, Tobirama leans more into his embrace, _willingly,_ and finally manages to take a deeper breath.

“Feels good,” he says simply, and it finally hits Madara that… _something_ has changed.

Tobirama’s—well, _Madara’s_ chakra now embedded in his coils—has spread out significantly, filling up the space around them like thick, almost tangible steam, feeling hot, familiar and comforting. So much so that, apparently, the last remnants of the ache bothering Madara since he’d woken up are gone.

Which is strange, considering how the pain spiked up after he had presumably sensed Tobirama approaching. Soulbonds do have the ability to calm and even heal soulmates in certain cases, but Madara had always assumed that soulmates had to have an accepted bond for that particular part of it to work.

Or at least be fond of one another. Not hate each other’s guts like he and Tobirama do.

_Fuck._

It’s all a gigantic, confusing mess.

Madara closes his eyes, mimicking the pattern of Tobirama’s breathing. Just for the hell of it, he pushes out the alien chakra from his coils in a tentative attempt to further comfort Tobirama, and the effect is immediate. Both of them feel the intermingling of the energies—ice cold and molten hot. Usually clashing when they lose control during their fights, now merging instead into a force that makes Madara’s skin prickle in a surprisingly pleasant way. And judging by the feel of Tobirama _finally_ relaxing into his hold, it seems to affect him similarly as well. 

“Senju, do your sensing abilities cause you chronic pain unless you’re overwhelmed by a particularly strong chakra signature?”

Madara doesn’t know what compelled him to ruin an otherwise blessedly peaceful moment, but he does want to find out if Tobirama is being hypocritical when chastising him for keeping self-destructive secrets.

Tobirama draws away, staring at Madara in confusion, Sharingan still blazing, almost blending in with the inflamed blood vessels as thin trails of blood keep trickling from them.

“No?” he says. “Why, are you in pain?”

“Fuck. No. Shut up,” Madara says, mentally kicking himself, “never mind.”

He doesn’t break eye contact and moves his hands to grip Tobirama’s shoulders, still kneading chakra into the space around him to ground them both.

“Now, Senju, like I said. You need to focus on something—anything in the room. Can you do that for me?”

Tobirama nods, keeping his gaze where it is, dead set on Madara’s eyes.

“Me. Okay. Right.” Madara’s face grows a little hot, probably due to the rising temperature of the room from Tobirama slamming his stolen chakra around like an untrained amateur. “Focus on the little things you can see. It can be anything, any details. You can say them out loud if you want.”

Tobirama gives another nod. Takes a deep breath. Runs his eyes slowly over Madara’s face. He looks so strange like this, his expression lacking the usual frown, lips trembling slightly, hair in disarray, eyes bloodshot and full of fear. Madara would pity him, were he a better man.

(Maybe he is a better man.)

“I can see every little strand of your hair,” Tobirama says suddenly, with a hint of awe, “and every tangle. It’s half over your face, like it always, but… there’s more of it sticking everywhere.” He tilts his head to the side. “You look a little stupid.”

Madara bites his lip to hold back his retort and motions for Tobirama to continue.

“Eyelashes,” Tobirama says next. “They’re wet. Waterdrops and…” He frowns, gaze growing a little distant. “There’s so much—so many particles on them?”

“No, no, no, _no._ ” Madara shakes him slightly by the shoulders. “Don’t go that deep, ignore the particles. Keep your attention on the droplets, on the bigger picture,” he stumbles through the words quickly, hoping he isn’t too late and won’t have to deal with the impending chakra depletion his eyes’ ability entails.

Tobirama seems to refocus, but still asks, “Why not? Does every Sharingan allow you to focus on the atomic level?”

Madara shakes his head.

“Only mine as far as I’m aware, and that’s a power you _do not_ want to test out, believe me,” he says in lieu of a proper explanation. _That_ mess can come later. “Go on.”

Tobirama scowls, clearly unsatisfied, but complies.

“Right. Droplets. Your whole face is wet, actually.” He frames Madara’s face with his hand, hovering, barely touching. “Your cheeks, your lips. I didn’t notice before that your cheeks were so… not chubby. Fuller, I guess?”

Madara wonders if drowning in Hashirama’s tears is a price he’s willing to pay to commit a very satisfying murder. It’s tempting.

“And there’s,” Tobirama lifts his fingers to brush against the side of Madara’s face, suddenly grinning, “toothpaste.”

Madara swats his hand away and hastily brushes it off.

“Calm enough now?” he snaps, rubbing at his other cheek for good measure.

“I think so,” Tobirama answers, blinking. “It’s still not gone, though.”

“You have to refocus on your eyes now,” Madara says, “but _don’t_ channel chakra. Just feel how the Sharingan influences your eyesight, your perception, simply be aware of it. And then—let go.”

A few heartbeats later, the black dissipates from Tobirama’s eyes, leaving him with his usual dim red irises. They both heave sighs of relief.

“Finally!” Tobirama shoves past Madara and starts pacing around the room, wiping away the dried blood clinging to his eyelids.

“Yeah, finally,” Madara grumbles. “And what do you mean my cheeks are chubby?”

“ _That’s_ what you want to focus on?” Tobirama says, turning to glare at him. “Not the fact that you’re steadily going blind and haven’t told anyone about it? Does Hashirama know? Does Izuna?”

“Yes, no, no and yes,” Madara says, rolling his eyes.

“Not funny, Uchiha.”

“Not trying to be, Senju.” Madara pinches the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, now that they’re apart again, the low buzz of the ache in his joints has returned and is getting worse by the second. “It’s how the Mangekyō works. I didn’t make the rules.”

“Walk me through it,” Tobirama demands. “What exactly does this form of the Sharingan do and why is there no way to fix it?”

“There is,” Madara says. “The Mangekyō gradually destroys all the living cells in your eyes unless you get an eye transplant of another pair of Mangekyō, preferably a sibling’s.” He shifts his gaze from Tobirama’s horror-stricken face to an empty wall which suddenly looks so very mesmerizing. “Which is obviously something I refuse to do, and Izuna doesn’t want to, either.”

A few more beats of silence pass.

“And Izuna’s is better, you said.”

“Yes.” Madara chances a glance at him. Tobirama is frowning, eyes narrowed in his usual ‘thinking and analyzing’ expression Madara is used to seeing on their joint meetings. “I forbade him to use it unless absolutely necessary.”

“Hm. So that’s why he never used it when we fought.”

“Correct.”

“Pity.”

Madara almost chokes. “W- _what?_ ”

Tobirama shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to try going up against it. Anija always had so much fun with you, I felt like I was missing out a little.” It’s such a ridiculous admission, and Madara can’t seem to do anything but splutter harder. “I didn’t know it was causing you so much pain, though. That changes things.”

“Well—well, that doesn’t matter!” Madara throws up his hands. “Gods, Senju—people are terrified of this dōjutsu, you know!”

Tobirama hums, noncommittal, and Madara comes to the conclusion that Hashirama isn’t the only reckless idiot among the Senju after all. Before he can say anything else, though, Tobirama’s face lights up with the slightly manic expression he gets when he comes up with a new idea.

“You’ve tried transplanting both pairs of the Sharingan, of course?” he asks. “Just exchanging the eyes, I mean. What happened then?” He looks at Madara expectantly, only managing half a minute of silence. “Well? Madara?”

He still receives no answer.

“Please tell me,” Tobirama says slowly, voice pained, “that look means that my question is redundant, and you’ve obviously tried that before. Right?”

Madara doesn’t, in fact, know for sure if the Uchiha have attempted anything of the like.

But never let it be said he isn’t ready to defend his clan’s honor.

“Of course!” he says, flailing a little before forcing his arms to cross over his chest, a bit defensively. “Or, well, I think so. I’m _sure_ ,” he corrects himself, “I’m sure someone has done that and it evidently didn’t work, because then…” Madara thinks about the blind Uchiha he knows and had helped take care of, when he could. The hollow eyes of too many of his clanmates, haunted by tragedy and death. “Then decades of problems wouldn’t exist,” he finishes lamely.

Centuries, more like. _Gods_ does Madara hope he’s right.

“Let’s hope so, Uchiha,” Tobirama growls, “or I’m going to have to assume _everyone_ in your clan lacks basic logical thinking skills, not just you.”

“Keep your mouth shut about my clan, Senju!”

“How can I, when I’ve got this damnable keepsake from you?” Tobirama says, gesturing to his eyes, which, thankfully, don’t switch over to the Sharingan despite his very apparent ire.

Madara takes a deep, calming breath.

“I _get_ that it isn’t exactly pleasant, Senju,” he says in the most level tone he can muster. “Your abilities seem to cause me pain too, if to a lesser degree,” he can’t help but complain. “But the fact is—we’re soulmates. You’ll have to deal with my eyesight for… a while, until both of us learn to control and give our powers back to each other. Then the Sharingan will be solely my concern once again. All right?”

Tobirama stares at him like he’s said something stupid. _Again._

“No, Madara. The fact _is_ that we’re soulmates, and from what I’ve gathered about a concept I care little about, we’re going to have to support one another.”

It’s so strange for Madara to hear someone say they care _little_ about the concept of soulmates, one that’s so sacred to his clan. It’s baffling. Though fate has chosen one who seems to be the _complete_ opposite of what Madara wants and needs, the fact itself has him wondering about the possibility of—something.

“Which means,” Tobirama goes on, “I will not leave this alone, whether you like it or not.”

Tobirama tone is both a promise and a threat, and Madara finds he has no idea what to think about it, how to _feel_. He wants to tell Tobirama off for butting into his personal affairs, but knows, of course, that Tobirama is right. There’s no ‘his’ affairs anymore—just ‘theirs,’ per the gods fickle, incomprehensible whims. 

And of course, there’s one thing he has to know.

“Just because we’re bound by fate, Tobirama?” he asks, abandoning his carefully conscious use of Tobirama’s last name when they converse. “You won’t leave this alone just because you _have to?_ ”

That stops Tobirama short. His eyes never quite left Madara as they talked, but now he focuses on him fully, just like he had when his Sharingan had been activated.

“I need to think,” Tobirama says quietly, something shifting in his face, rending it cold and emotionless—Madara’s least favorite expression on him. He takes a few steps back towards the window. “I’ll find you later. Or you find me. Later,” he repeats firmly.

Madara feels rage starting to boil inside him.

“Now wait just one minute!”

Tobirama doesn’t pause and promptly leaps out of the window, flickering away, leaving Madara alone in an empty room with a brain buzzing with questions and a body prickling with renewed bouts of pain.

“What a fucking bastard,” he swears, “fucking _impossible_. Why couldn’t you be bonded to an asshole just like you are?!”

He knows screaming at empty space is a little weird and most likely very useless. No matter. There’s no one around but him to witness it anyway.

Only he turns out to be wrong about that, because apparently, their argument was loud enough to wake Izuna in his house across the street.

“Technically, nii-san, you’re kind of an asshole, too,” Izuna says with a yawn, shuffling into Madara’s room wrapped up in a blanket, eyes still sleep-heavy. “Hashirama and I are obviously the better brothers in our respective duos.” He grins, dodging the bedside table Madara throws at his head. “I think fate has chosen well.”

He doesn’t dodge the barrage of pillows, letting them land smack center onto his grinning face.

“Get the fuck out,” Madara growls, and Izuna moves to do just that. Madara scowls. “Wait.”

Izuna stops in his tracks, turning back to Madara with, shit-eating grin still in place. Madara sighs and comes over to him to wrap him into a _particularly_ bone-crushing hug, ignoring the wheezing protests that follow.

“Channel your chakra, would you?” Madara asks. “Please?”

Izuna is a bit confused by the request but does as he’s told, thankfully silent this time, pushing Madara away for something more akin to a hug and not a suffocation attempt. The gentle crackle of his hearth-like signature soothes Madara’s nerves once more, numbing the pain to an extent, though not even close to the way Tobirama’s closeness had helped.

He will have to make do with this for now.

“You’re now my temporary personal painkiller,” Madara announces, “and I will not be accepting any complaints about this arrangement.”

“No idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I can’t _wait_ to hear the whole account of your lovers spat, nii-san,” Izuna deadpans.

“Shut up, Izuna.”

“You’ll want me to give you advice, though,” Izuna says, tone teasing. “After all, I’m the one with the experience of being soulbound to a Senju.”

“Whatever. Shut up. Let me think.”

Izuna doesn’t in fact, let Madara think, because he is an incorrigible little shit and an utter menace.

“You know,” he says, “make-up sex is just the best way to—”

He gets cut off when Madara breaks away to grab one of the scattered pillows and starts attacking Izuna with it, unmindful of the feathers flying everywhere.

Izuna only laughs, arms himself in kind and gives as good as he gets.

*

**TOBIRAMA**

The Uchiha are confusing, Tobirama decides as he finishes perusing what seems to be the thousandth text out of the documents he’s borrowed from the atrocious Uchiha Libraries. Plural because the clan has thousands upon tens of thousands of archived records. Atrocious because most of them are either redundant, incomplete (as if the record-keepers only wrote their accounts when inspiration struck and were prone to abandoning them half-way) or completely nonfactual, useless opinion pieces that Tobirama can’t base any of his theories on.

And _gods_ , does he have a _lot_ of theories in need of testing.

He takes a pain reliever as the Sharingan-induced migraine acts up again; he’d been careful not to activate it throughout the day, but the headache still lingered, making it a challenge to stay focused. Tobirama manages to, though, just barely, and there’s at least a little progress to show for it.

He’d left Madara early morning, obtained his free ticket into the Libraries almost immediately and has spent the whole day researching a dōjutsu that proved to be all the more incomprehensible with every piece of ‘research’ Tobirama got through. After hours of historical accounts (and thrice damned opinion pieces), Tobirama did stumble upon one instance of the Mangekyō having been exchanged between two Uchiha. The experiment failed, with both subjects ending up dead, was declared unholy and was never attempted again.

The sheer audacity of that made Tobirama’s eye twitch. Honestly, where would he have been if he had stopped at his first unsuccessful Edo Tensei attempt?

(Probably lacking in his brother’s occasional tearful, very annoying admonishments about desecrating the dead, but that isn’t the point.)

The attempt was done centuries ago, back when most of the shinobi clans were nothing more than nomad tribes wandering the then empty, nationless continents, trying to figure out how to use the Sage of Six Paths’ gift of chakra properly. With no established iryō jutsu practice at that time, of _course_ the switch had a high chance of failing. For some reason, the Uchiha didn’t seem to take into account that an overwhelming majority of the simple eye transplants from the younger Uchiha brothers to their elders were unsuccessful, too. It really was an inexcusable abuse of the scientific principle to assume the worst after one godsdamned test.

It’s downright confusing, bordering on stupid, really. And even then, Tobirama can think of a dozen other ways to solve the Mangekyō problem without resorting to transplants and possible mutilation, most of them simple schemes of directed chakra manipulation and perhaps a little tinkering with DNA. But to do that—

Ah. He’s forgotten.

“Hikaku?” Tobirama says to the depths of his enormous lab. The size is suddenly an inconvenience, because he can’t really see anything that’s further than two feet away clearly—and sensing through Madara’s chakra is nothing but an exercise in futility.

“Right here.” Hikaku appears before him with a shunshin, holding a book on the latest discoveries in relativity—something Tobirama _could_ be researching right now if he weren’t stuck with Madara’s problem.

Tobirama takes a deep breath, taking another pill for good measure to help him deal with the persistent headache. Not Madara’s. Theirs. He promised—they’re soulmates and that obliges him to have his partner’s back, no matter their evidently mutual dislike.

(Tobirama refuses to think about Madara’s question now, isn’t ready to contemplate impossible possibilities and delve through his complicated net of feelings for the person who annoys—and intrigues—him most. That can come later, because he’s otherwise preoccupied and definitely _not_ running away.)

“You there, Tobirama?” Hikaku asks with an understanding smile, waving a hand in front of Tobirama’s face.

“Yes. Sorry. And—sorry I made you wait this long. I shouldn’t have invited and ignored you like that.” Tobirama sighs. “I got distracted again.”

“Don’t worry,” Hikaku says, inching a glass of water to Tobirama, always the one making sure Tobirama hydrates, his mother hen tendencies second only to Hashirama. “We only got here an hour ago. You know I adore your lab and I think Kagami’s busy with some of the chemicals you’ve labeled kid-friendly over there.”

As if in answer, the hiss of a chemical reaction and a triumphant whoop sounded from somewhere in the distance, making both of them smile.

“Right,” Tobirama says, “well, I’m ready now for the inspection. May I?” He stands, raising his hands. Hikaku gives an affirmative, and Tobirama pushes chakra into his palms, now glowing a faint green. “Activate your Sharingan, please.”

Hikaku does, without question, and Tobirama nears his hands towards his eyes, registering the feel, structure and movement of the distinct chakra, cataloguing the way cells behave more actively, how every one of them feels amplified by the Sharingan’s power.

“Now your Mangekyō.”

A swirly pattern replaces the tomoe, and the very essence of the chakra generated by the Sharingan seems to change. Tobirama frowns, making note of every little shifts, how the momentum of the chakra seems to increase exponentially, carrying with it potential for an enormous burst of power. The cells seem to be otherwise fine, expectantly.

“You have the Eternal Mangekyō, right?” Tobirama asks, tentative, remembering what Hikaku told him this morning.

“Yeah,” Hikaku says, averting his gaze. “Not a pretty story, but one I can tell if you’d like.”

Tobirama shakes his head. “No need. I have an idea of what must have happened and it’s not too relevant to my search for another solution.”

He pushes more chakra through one of his palms, gaining greater clarity, and reaches for ink and paper with the other to scribble down his findings.

“It’d be easier if you used your new Sharingan, you know,” Hikaku says, making Tobirama splutter, of all things, much like a certain Uchiha when caught by surprise. “You’d remember all you need in perfect detail.”

Tobirama stares.

“Hikaku,” he chokes out, “how did you—”

“We’re friends, Tobirama,” Hikaku says, rolling his eyes, “and I’m afraid I’m the more emotionally perceptive of the both of us.”

“Am I really that obvious?” Tobirama asks, frowning.

“Yep.” Hikaku grins. “It also helps that you radiate Madara’s very potent chakra like crazy. Seriously, I’m not even a sensor.” Tobirama scowls, shoving him away. “It’s good you’re not out and about or you’d be giving every sensory ninja in the village a massive migraine.”

“ _Ugh_.” Tobirama groans, sinking back down into his chair. “Don’t remind me that I have _his_ chakra to deal with now. I feel hot all the time. Are all the Uchiha this hot?”

“Depends on what definition of hot you’re using.”

“ _Hikaku!_ ”

“Relax, Tobirama,” Hikaku says through laughter, hopping onto the table. “It’s a normal soulbond experience, it’s _never_ painless. You’ll get a hang of it, eventually. And I’m sure our esteemed and _very composed_ Clan Head isn’t faring much better.”

“No,” Tobirama says, crossing his arms. “He isn’t.”

Hikaku gives him an appraising look.

“Listen,” Hikaku starts, “I know you both… find it difficult… to communicate normally,” he awkwardly circumvents the word _hate,_ “but it really isn’t healthy to be apart from your soulmate like this.”

“I know, Hikaku.” Tobirama buries his face in his hands. “I’ll talk to him, I promise.”

“And you’ll tell me about it.”

“I’d rather not.” Tobirama opens one eye to look at Hikaku through the space between his fingers. “It’ll probably end in disaster.”

“Tell me all the juicy details then,” Hikaku demands cheerfully. “Come on. You can’t bribe the Chief Record Keeper for an illegal pass into my clan’s secret archives and not provide something in return.”

“A month babysitting your son isn’t enough for you?” Tobirama says, tone sour even though they both know he’ll enjoy every minute of spare time spent with his first ever student.

“It is,” Hikaku agrees, “or, would be under any normal circumstances. As it stands, you owe me a bigger reward for _making me break Clan Law_.”

“Your Clan Law and its stupid restrictions are the reason you have this stupid problem with your Mangekyō Sharingan in the first place,” Tobirama mutters. “And I’m going to fix it.”

“For your soulmate,” Hikaku says with a pretensiously dreamy sigh.

“Not for him.” Tobirama sinks into his chair further. “Not _just_ for him. So Kagami doesn’t have to deal with similar pain in the future, nor any other Uchiha child.”

And it’s true of course; Tobirama would be just as deep in research if he’d found out about this issue without the added hassle of being Madara's soulmate. Hikaku knows this, of course, because he’s just as much of a dear friend as Izuna is to Tobirama, if not more.

Inevitably, that train of thought leads him to question why he and Madara seem to be so completely at odds when the Uchiha’s general wariness of Tobirama (and vice versa) have all but disappeared. Perhaps they can become friends, if nothing else, if and when they figure out how to talk without losing their cool every single time. He’d wondered about that before, what it would feel like for Madara to smile at him with genuine care instead of the usual derision. It’s honestly a pity they aren’t platonic soulmates. Although—

Tobirama imagines the prospect of being trapped in Madara’s body for an indefinite amount of time and thinks, _No. No, it’s_ good _that we aren’t._

“By the way,” Hikaku says, thankfully distracting Tobirama from his thoughts again, “Kagami, come here for a bit?”

“Yes, Dad!” Kagami leaps towards them, light on his feet but still almost knocking down a vial with a moderately pesky virus that Tobirama makes a note to properly seal later. “Tobirama-sensei!” Kagami instantly focuses on him, eyes gleaming as he surveys all the notes Tobirama has piled up. “What were you working on all this time? Did you make any progress? Is it a new awesome jutsu? Will you teach it to me?”

“No, Kagami, it isn’t anything flashy this time,” Tobirama says, ruffling his student’s hair with a smile. “You’d probably find it boring. But we’ll work on your Grand Fireball Jutsu tomorrow, I promise.” Tobirama suddenly realizes he’ll have to spend tomorrow’s training session without his—well, Madara’s—chakra. What a pain.

“Awesome!” Kagami jumps up and down with his usual bouncy excitement. “I’m getting so great at fire jutsu—you’ll see tomorrow. I’ve got so many new tricks I can show you!”

“I hope you’re making as much progress in chakra theory, Kagami,” Tobirama chuckles as Kagami’s expression switches to one of horror. “Don’t forget your little test tomorrow.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. And so as not to keep you from studying,” Tobirama says, “before you leave, may I take a look at your Sharingan, Kagami? With a diagnostic iryō jutsu?”

Kagami gives him a curious look, glancing at Hikaku, then back at Tobirama again.

“Sure thing, sensei.”

As expected, Kagami’s Sharingan isn’t much different than Hikaku’s basic version, but much weaker in energy compared to it, despite all three of his tomoe being fully developed.

That’s an interesting detail compared to all the other data Tobirama has gathered. Hikaku had explained to him earlier that day that Kagami’s Sharingan awakened after a particularly traumatizing experience—his mother’s death—and was one of the strongest in the clan among children. If anything, that motivated Tobirama to work more, faster, better to find an adequate cure for the Mangekyō’s degenerative effect. Hopefully, Kagami won’t have to suffer enough to acquire it, but none of them know what the future holds, and Tobirama wants to squander the potential for tragedy before it manifests.

It's not long after that before Hikaku makes Tobirama swear on the periodic table of elements (“Because you lack any whatsoever respect for the gods, you heathen") to get proper sleep after they leave and continue his work tomorrow. And really, with the amount of chaos he's had to suffer through today, Tobirama is yearning to do just that.

If only…

Tobirama gets back to his empty, sterile home, barely lived in because he spends most of his time in the office, at Hashirama’s place, with his students or in his lab. He tries, unsuccessfully, to get himself to fall asleep. Sedatives have long since lost their effect on him and his body seems to have stopped registering painkillers, because despite all the pills in his system, the migraine and the dizziness that comes with it return full force just as he’s trying to will himself to sleep.

He can’t.

His thoughts unerringly stray to Madara again.

It’s annoying.

And now that Tobirama has no research or people around to distract him, he feels treacherous feelings of guilt encroaching as his mind supplies him with memories of their whole conversation.

There was _something_ different in Madara’s tone, in his expression as he asked Tobirama the question that caught him completely unawares.

_Just because we’re bound by fate, Tobirama?_

_No,_ Tobirama thinks, _I would have helped anyway._

 _You won’t leave this alone just because you_ have to?

It wasn’t the hidden implications of the question that bothered him most. Not even the complete change in Madara’s demeanor as he asked it—a change to a softer, almost vulnerable side Tobirama had never seen before. It was the epiphany Tobirama had in that very moment, realizing that he was, for some reason, genuinely concerned about Madara’s wellbeing. This despite their long-standing status quo of mutual hostility and Tobirama’s self-proclaimed lack of care about the inherently irrational (and therefore irritating) idea of soulmates.

It’s unnerving.

He turns to bury himself in the pillows on his couch, closing his eyes, desperately begging for his mind to just _stop_. Stop analyzing, stop wondering and making dozens of possible predictions for the future, stop dissecting every one of his actions and feelings and impulses and just—rest.

Well.

Another impossibility, it seems.

* * *

  1. And since rest is out of the question, he reasons he can safely break one promise he’d made to Hikaku and make good on the other. Stopping himself just before he reaches for the Hiraishin marker in the Uchiha district, Tobirama leaps through the window and sets out towards Madara’s house for a much-needed conversation.
  2. ~~Preparing himself for a long, sleepless night, Tobirama shifts onto his back and turns to stare out the wide window at the stars glimmering around the full moon. Tobirama decides to let Madara seek him out himself, whenever he's ready. It’s much too soon to deal with this enormous mess.~~



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	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cries* I'm so sorry for another long wait and a shorter chapter  
> For some reason, this was a bit harder to write than the others (hopefully it turned out okay) (Meow>.>) (How obvious is it that I adore dialogue but can't write it and am therefore trying too hard lmao?) 
> 
> Annnnyways, despite all that, hope you enjoy! :3
> 
> survey comment replies updated over [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> ~~ALSO FCKN FINALLY, JUST ONE MORE CHOICE LEFT TILL THE END OF THE FIRST ARC HHHHHH~~

_And since rest is out of the question, he reasons he can safely break one promise he’d made to Hikaku and make good on the other. Stopping himself just before he reaches for the Hiraishin marker in the Uchiha district, Tobirama leaps through the window and sets out towards Madara’s house for a much-needed conversation._

It's grating, being unable to properly sense his surroundings with his chakra all over the place, but Tobirama deals with it as best as he can, for the first time in his life relying solely on his sense of sight as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop. At least this simple chakra manipulation is manageable, though he does almost slip a few times—another novel experience—which leaves him all the more yearning for his former impeccable chakra control.

And _eyesight_.

He finds Madara in a similar state of sleeplessness, pacing next to the koi pond in the little garden adjacent to his house. Madara stops in his tracks and turns to look in the direction of Tobirama’s approach just before Tobirama jumps down to face him.

Madara looks downright exhausted, disheveled and cold, what with his slight trembling. He’s probably still in pain, Tobirama realizes with a tinge of irrational guilt—which immediately disappears when Madara flicks his hand and the water from the koi pond rises to form a giant wave that descends upon Tobirama, knocking him onto the ground and soaking him to the bone.

“What,” Tobirama growls, body and voice shaking as he blinks the wetness away, “the fuck do you think you’re doing, Uchiha?”

Even with his blurry vision, Tobirama can make out the bastard’s smirk—a crooked, self-satisfied thing. Madara clumsily redirects half of the water back into the pond and crosses his arms.

“Giving my soulmate a proper greeting, of course,” he drawls as Tobirama stands, trying his best to shake off the water that feels _wrong_ , wet and annoying, not soothing and playfully mingling with his chakra like it usually would. “Most fitting for your _dashing_ farewell, I’d say.”

In what he deems a miraculous feat of self-restraint, Tobirama doesn’t move to burn Madara to a crisp in answer for his glaring stupidity.

It’s tempting, though.

But then again, there are safer ways to retaliate.

“Is this a bad time to mention,” Tobirama says, “that my chakra is exceptionally attuned to water?”

Madara rolls his eyes.

“I know you think others inferior to you in intelligence, Senju, and me most of all,” Tobirama nods as Madara says this, just to rile him up further, “but I am _not_ going to fall for your idiotic taunts.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to taunt you, Madara, just to warn you,” Tobirama says, mock-concerned, “that if you go on using my chakra this carelessly, you might just accidentally end up manipulating the water inside a human body.”

It’s viscerally pleasing, seeing Madara’s smirk dissipate, replaced by a horrified scowl.

“WHAT?”

The way Madara shrieks will never stop being amusing, and it seems the absence of his explosive fiery chakra does little to quell his usual temper. He recoils from the pond, looks at his hands like he's considering cutting them off, looks at Tobirama with a look of such disgust that—well, isn’t exactly pleasant but still entertaining.

“Like _blood_?” Madara asks, voice strained.

“Blood _is_ known to be partially made of water, Uchiha—”

“You idiot!” Madara shouts, starting to pace again, burrowing his hands in his sleeves. “That is not fucking funny!”

“It isn’t,” Tobirama agrees, “I’ve caused enough of people’s insides to accidentally rupture as a child that I find it far from a laughing matter.” He doesn’t mention that those accidents only ever amounted to two events and both victims were enemies; the rest were deliberate targets of Tobirama’s honed, precise chakra control. 

“You mean—” Madara’s eyes grow wide with ever-growing terror. “You mean I could have—I spent the whole day with Izuna, you prick! Couldn’t you have warned me that I’m now a godsdamned spontaneous murder weapon?”

 _To be fair, you always have been,_ Tobirama wants to say, but that nagging spike of guilt raises its ugly head again, and he begrudgingly decides to go the pacifistic way. That’s what he came here for, after all—a conversation, not a fight.

“Kind of. But it would only happen if you’re _truly_ angry, far more than you are now, or if you’re on the verge of death, as a defense mechanism,” Tobirama explains. “I’m just messing with you, Uchiha. Calm down.”

“Calm down when you’re around, you infuriating asshole?” The remaining water in the pond ripples in reaction to his anger and he takes another step back, eyeing it warily. “What the hell did you come here for anyway?”

“To talk.”

“Go to hell.” With the way Madara is glaring at him, Tobirama prepares himself for another splash of water, but the assault never comes. “I won’t speak with you on your terms.”

“What if I offer an apology?”

Madara raises an eyebrow. “Really? You? An apology. If I weren’t in such a foul mood that would warrant a laugh, Senju, good one.”

Tobirama counts from five to one before answering, finding it suddenly a convenience how his skin runs hot, how chakra crackles and burns around him, enough so that he’s almost dry and comforted, rather than annoyed by its warmth. _Anija would approve_ , he thinks bitterly

“I’m sorry. My leaving you like that was neither polite nor called for. But I truly needed to think about…” He gestures vaguely in Madara’s direction. “All this.”

Madara is staring at him like he’s grown another head, and it’s somehow even more unnerving than his death glare.

“You—actually—” Madara shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “Huh.”

He crosses his arms again, and as often as Tobirama has seen that gesture on him, he finds himself suddenly curious why Madara likes it so much. Arms tightly locked and shoulders raised defensively, he looks somewhat like a petulant child. His posture is stiffer than usual, though, and Tobirama makes an effort to quell his chakra lashing out as much as possible to avoid causing unnecessary pain.

“Did a lot of thinking then, Senju?” Madara asks with a much more level tone, which is, Tobirama supposes, the only acknowledgement of his apology he’s going to get.

“No, actually.” Tobirama averts his gaze, biting his lip. “I got side-tracked. I spent the whole day researching your godsdamned dōjutsu.”

Madara frowns, confused.

“Why in the world would you be doing that?”

“I told you,” Tobirama says, “I’m not leaving this alone. There has to be another way to stop the Mangekyō from deteriorating your eyesight, and I’m going to find it.”

“Oh, so you think it’s going to be easy,” Madara asks, voice leaking skepticism, “fixing a centuries-old curse?”

“It’s not going to be that hard, considering that over all those centuries your good-for-nothing clan only had the idea to transplant two pairs of Mangekyō _once_ , then gave up on that idea and didn’t even _try_ any alternatives just blinding people left and right.” Tobirama is still avoiding Madara’s gaze, focusing on one the sakura trees in the garden. “I mean, good clan,” he amends, “you’re okay, I guess.”

“Drop the insolence, Senju,” Madara growls, narrowing his eyes. “And how would you even know that? That isn’t in any of the public libraries, did you—did you _break into our archives?_ ”

 _Ah,_ Tobirama belatedly realizes his mistake.

“I did,” he tries, although Hashirama’s been telling him since his earliest childhood that he’s a hopelessly terrible liar. He chances a glance at Madara, who’s fuming, making wavelets surge through the pond again.

“Hikaku,” Madara says, and Tobirama curses Hashirama for being right, _as always._ “That bastard _._ Should have known.” He sighs. “He was a good Uchiha. I’ll miss him.”

“The killing intent isn’t appreciated, Madara, and for the love of the gods, stop your theatrics.”

“When _you_ stop your meddling.”

“I’m not going to stand by when innocent people are suffering because _someone_ refuses to act and fix this!” Tobirama snaps, turning back to Madara and realizing his world is suddenly in perfect clarity again. “Dammit.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and blanks his mind, easing himself back into a calmer mindset. It doesn’t feel as painful as the Mangekyō did, so he deduces he only activated the base version of the Sharingan this time. Thankfully.

“I won’t let innocent people suffer,” Tobirama repeats, “let innocent _children_ suffer, when I’m in a position to do something about it. I’m not doing this because you’re my soulmate. I’m going to help, whether you like it or not, just because I can. Because I _want to._ ”

Tobirama reopens his eyes only to see Madara standing close—far too close—and reaching out with his hands as if to hug him, but Tobirama flinches and takes a nervous step back, strangely comforted by the world becoming blurred once more.

“Don’t,” he says, “I’m fine.”

Madara is staring at him again, shock painted on his face, eyes searching Tobirama’s expression for—something, and Tobirama struggles not to squirm at the scrutiny.

“Uchiha?” The man in question only blinks in reply. “Hello?”

“You’re insane,” Madara finally says with a slightly dazed smile, “you’re actually insane.”

“The insane one is you,” Tobirama snarls, “because if I had the idiotic notion of keeping my progressing blindness a secret, I would at least be actively doing something to fix it.” It’s Madara’s turn to avoid his eyes, it seems. “Is this how you feel every day? The migraines even without the Mangekyō activated? The pain, the random flashes in your eyes?”

“Yeah,” Madara mutters, “what of it?”

“You don’t just _keep these things_ from people, Madara,” Tobirama raises his voice, losing the last of his tenuous grip on his patience, “especially from my brother who may well be able to reverse the damage, at least temporarily!”

“Why do you care so fucking much about that, Tobirama?”

The sound of his name slipping from Madara’s lips is a bit of a shock.

“I just told you, Madara.”

“No. I get wanting to help my clan, I’d get it even if you wanted to fix the Mangekyō just for the hell of it, like your raising the dead thing or whatever other fuckery you’re up to.” Madara scowls, probably remembering what Hashirama has dubbed the Graveyard Fiasco. “But keeping this a secret is—was my problem. I may have acted… unwisely, but _why do you care?_ ”

Tobirama shrugs. “We’re soulmates.”

“And you told me you don’t give a shit about the concept.”

“Care little about,” Tobirama corrects him, “which doesn’t erase the fact that soulmates exist, and I feel a responsibility to…” he trails off. It’s physically painful, being unable to express himself when he usually has no problem with eloquence.

“To help someone you hate?” Madara finishes for him. “You don’t exactly seem happy you’re stuck with me now.”

“Neither do you, judging by all your screaming,” Tobirama parries. “And that’s not the point.”

“What is, then?”

“I’m worried, and not just because of the bond,” Tobirama says, recalling the question they’d left off before, “but because even if we don’t get along, you’re still—” He gestures helplessly.

_My brother’s best friend. My close friend’s brother. An admirable shinobi. The cornerstone of our village._

What comes out instead is, “I’m not as emotionless as you paint me out to be, Madara. That’s all.”

A strange look passes through Madara’s eyes.

“No,” he says, “you’re not.”

Annoyingly, he falls into silence once more, tilting his head to the side and watching Tobirama with an appraising look that makes shivers run down his spine for no particular reason. It’s a far cry from what he thought this conversation would turn out to be—a barely salvageable screaming match, an extremely tenuous quasi-truce, perhaps. A physical fight.

(What Tobirama wouldn’t give right now to be able to let out his frustration through kicks and punches. And preferably a Water Dragon Jutsu or several, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to working with fireballs from now on. A tragedy, really.)

“Well?” Tobirama asks after the few seconds of his shortened patience reserves run out. “Are you going to say anything else?”

Madara blinks, then smiles.

Tobirama feels like his heart skips a beat from the shock of it—seeing an actual smile on Madara’s face. Not a smirk or the murderous grins he so favors. A _smile_. It’s almost unsettling.

“Fine, Senju. _Tobirama,_ ” Madara draws out the syllables of his name, as if slowly tasting how it feels to say it. “That’s a satisfactory answer. But don’t think for one second I’m letting you attempt this on your own.”

A finger jabs Tobirama’s chest, making him go almost cross-eyed as he stares at it. Madara’s chakra spikes immediately, sending a wave of soothing pleasure throughout Tobirama’s body; Madara seems to feel the same, quickly drawing his hand away as he continues.

“You’re researching something that directly concerns me—and my clan. Again, despite whatever you may think, I _have_ studied chakra theory and iryō jutsu. I may simply need a little brushing up,” Madara adds, quieter.

“Fair enough. I’m not averse to working together, and I’ll make an effort to put our differences aside if you are." Tobirama offers a tentative smile of his own. "And I’m told I’m a good teacher.”

Does Madara _blush_ at that? Tobirama blinks. No, must be a trick of the light—or lack thereof in the dim moonlight.

“Yeah, yeah. Just make an effort to curb your insult for once," Madara grumbles.

Tobirama chuckles. _The hypocrite._

“If you curb it with the drama," he says, "perhaps I'll make an effort."

“You of all people should know that Izuna is the more dramatic one out of us two. And you grew up with Hashirama, for gods’ sakes.”

“True, but Anija isn’t as loud,” Tobirama says, grinning wider. It’s a nice change, this light-hearted feel of their exchange. Comforting. “And Izuna swears he learned everything from you.”

“He’s lying."

“He does seem more persuading, Madara."

“You believe your precious friend more than you do your new soulmate, Tobirama?” Madara scoffs. “Fate disapproves.”

“Fate can go fuck itself.” That makes Madara chuckle. Tobirama doesn’t understand why that feels like some sort of victory, but it does. “And Izuna doesn’t greet me with a scowl every morning I show up at the Tower, at least.”

Madara sobers up, suddenly serious, and there’s that odd, contemplative look again, boring through Tobirama’s own eyes as if trying to find an answer to a question Madara has yet to voice.

“Tell me this, Tobirama,” he says, “you haven’t rejected our bond. We've reached some… semblance of an agreement. I wonder—what exactly would you like to get out of this bond, at this stage, at least?”

The question catches Tobirama by surprise, so much so that he feels the urge to run away once more. It’s stupid, he knows, and another irritating tendency of the day, since he’s prided himself in seldom—if ever—fleeing from uncomfortable situations.

“If you even _think_ about leaving again, I will master that Water Dragon tehcnique of yours and _drown_ you,” Madara threatens.

Tobirama rolls his eyes and promises nothing.

It’s frustrating, because he is somewhat sure of what he would like from this—whatever he and Madara have or will have. Something like his closeness with Izuna or Hikaku, perhaps. No outright aggression and no need to insult each other at every opportunity. Someone he can confide in and ask for advice. Someone who will listen to him and not mock Tobirama for his many oddities and obsessive ideas, like so many others have before.

He knows, though, that the sheer nature of the bond will never let it end there. The hint of _something more_ hangs over his head even now like a sword waiting to strike. _That’s_ what makes Tobirama yearn for escape, because he’s so painfully unsure of what to even _think_ about the implication.

* * *

  1. ~~“Just friendship. For now,” Tobirama says, ignoring how his heart starts drumming faster against his ribcage.~~
  2. “I don’t know, Madara. So I can’t give you an honest answer—yet,” Tobirama says, knowing, though, that it’ll be the cause of many restless nights to come. “What about you? What do you want to gain from this?”



~~**Click[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSc_JkJ5sBgP3D0JpKONm3Xo_X9MLtMNo_P_6vSrrOmPNyting/viewform?usp=sf_link) to vote** ~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SORRY for another long wait, i hope the intervals aren't making you lose interest >.> i'm trying. Just had no time whatsoever to work on this the past couple of days but ended up writing and editing it in like half a day XD  
> hope you enjoy ~~the flailiness lmao please stop me~~ the read :3
> 
> survey comment replies updated over [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> and congrats! next chapter will be the last one of arc I and then it's arc II with it's maaaany shenanigans :D

_“I don’t know, Madara. So I can’t give you an honest answer—yet,” Tobirama says, knowing, though, that it’ll be the cause of many restless nights to come. “What about you? What do you want to gain from this?”_

“Such crude wording,” Madara chastises, a playful glint in his eyes. “I want to gain nothing, Tobirama, except what you’re willing to give me. Don’t mistake my annoyance at this constant fucking _pain_ as displeasure at meeting my soulmate. Soulbonds are revered in my clan. Sacred. And I would gladly forge one with you—a bond that would make us both stronger together than when we are apart.”

Madara pauses, looking as if he’s about to say something else possibly even _more_ outlandish, but instead there’s that soft, genuine smile again, which looks so alien on Madara’s face Tobirama feels like he’s been caught in a particularly unrealistic genjutsu.

“But only if you would wish to gift me such a bond, Tobirama.” Just like the smile, Madara’s tone has turned soft, unthreatening, almost tentative, and Tobirama feels—

Confused.

He knows the stories, of course, has read and heard enough about the Uchiha’s dedication to the ideal of soulbonds and love in general. Even today he’s seen more of the clan scholars’ philosophical treatises about how emotional attachment affects the Sharingan’s development instead of actual observation of the process itself.

Madara hasn’t exactly hinted at love or anything romantic per se, but the insinuation of it is evident. And, quite frankly, terrifying. It’s annoying that by evading Madara’s initial question, Tobirama still ends up feeling unsettled by Madara’s answer _._ It feels as if he’s exposing himself to something terrible, making himself vulnerable by merely _thinking_ about the notion of opening himself up to the man he’s never even been on good terms with.

The reasons stem far back to his childhood, of course, when his only friends had been Anija and Tōka, while the rest of the clan had seen Tobirama as nothing but an asset, a dangerous and unpredictable one at that.

Then came Mito, almost unnoticeably turning from formidable sister-in-law Tobirama cautiously respected to a trusted partner in seal-developing sprees (or _crime_ , Hashirama would argue) and random journeys together into the wild to study near-mythical creatures and underresearched phenomena. And _that_ closeness had taken a good decade to cement—nearly half of Tobirama’s life.

It was smoother with Izuna, who’d shifted gears so quickly after peace was established that it felt as if Tobirama suddenly had another overly loud, clingy Anija stuck to him almost almost every hour of the day. More or less effortless with Hikaku, who’d approached Tobirama with nothing but kindness despite the years of war behind them. It seems safer, in the village they’ve built from childhood dreams, to extend his trust to others.

But Madara is different.

The problem with him is nothing like the fear he had of Mito monopolizing his brother’s love and attention when she and Hashirama had discovered their bond. Not his rivalry with Izuna, which resembled Madara and Hashirama’s almost playful standstill battles with each passing year of the war. It’s an inexplicable, irrational dislike he and Madara have for each other that makes them fight almost at every turn. Their poor excuses for conversations are never boring, Tobirama supposes, but amusement at Madara’s angry shrieking is far from a basis for friendship, much less something _more_.

Even so, steadfast determination burns in Madara’s eyes, the fire that hasn’t quite left him even though Tobirama’s chakra now runs through his coils. Seeing him open up like this, offering a truce, the _possibility_ of something better—Tobirama can’t help but feel at least slightly curious.

“I’m willing to try,” Tobirama says, not bothering to apologize for his lengthy silence, “and see where this leads us.”

“Good.” Madara’s grin widens. “And, of course, another perk I’ve always wanted from a soulbond is a stable sex life, but we’ll see how that goes, yes?”

Tobirama clenches his fists. Runs through a few mental scenarios of strangling Madara with his mess of black hair and only then reminds himself of the ubiquitous taboo against the murder of one’s soulmate. 

“Out of the two of you, Uchiha, your brother also clearly has the better sense of humor,” he manages a more or less polite reply.

Madara scoffs. “Bullshit. You’re talking about the idiot who still hasn’t outgrown potty humor.”

“Yes.” Tobirama glares. “I am.”

Annoyingly, it only makes Madara laugh more. Even more maddening is how _pleasing_ it feels to see Madara enjoying himself, how it makes _Tobirama_ want to smile, in turn. He keeps his face neutral, though, even as it becomes harder to curtail his amusement.

“Tell me this then, Tobirama,” Madara says as he calms down, “since you haven’t answered my previous question. You said you care little about soulmates. Why?”

Tobirama contemplates weaseling how way out of that one as well, but for fairness’ sake, he opts to tell the truth.

“I’ve always struggled to build connections with people,” he admits. “I only have a handful of friends and most of them are my family, anyway. People don’t usually connect to what I say or what I do.” Echoes of _freak_ , _ghost, demon, probably bondless_ surface somewhere in the back of his mind. Tobirama ignores them. “And the idea of soulmates always seemed strange to me. Two people chosen by the gods to be together for life? Perfect lovers, perfect friends—it all seems like badly written fairy tale. One that I never thought I’d be a part of.”

“You’ve befriended at least two people from my clan easily enough,” Madara points out.

“I know. Things change. It’s…” Tobirama sighs. “Not as hard as it used to be. But I will need some space. And lots of time.”

“You can have those if your promise not to _break spacetime_ again,” Madara says wryly, “like with the Monster Portal Debacle last month.”

“I closed it and all of the yōkai that came out of it were killed,” Tobirama says, sick of the unceasing complaints— _and_ of people invoking his brother’s tasteless monikers for his lab incidents.

“Ridiculous man," Madara says, the sheer hypocrisy of his statement going right over his head, as always. “But to quell your worries, as I’ve said, I won’t push you into anything you’re uncomfortable with. No need to be intimidated.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Uchiha,” Tobirama snaps to hide the relief flooding through him at the words. “I’m not intimidated by you.”

“Oh?” Madara raises an eyebrow, giving Tobirama a skeptical onceover. “I’d say you are.”

“Am not.”

“Don’t lie to me. Soulmates are supposed to be honest with each other,” Madara says in a sickly-sweet tone.

“Well, if we are being honest, you weren’t all that intimidating when you had this thing,” Tobirama points to his eyes, “either. Now you’re just a puff of smoke compared to that Majestic Destroyer Flame you’re so partial to.”

Tobirama can’t help the grin as Madara, predictably, growls a heartfelt curse and tries to soak Tobirama again. Following the motion of his hand, the koi water ripples, rises slightly, then sinks back to the ground as Madara gives up, staring at the pond like it’s offended him on a personal level.

“Not angry enough, Uchiha,” Tobirama teases, squinting to check on the poor koi fish, thankfully still living.

“Oh, it’s funny when I’m angry is it,” Madara hisses.

“Extremely.”

“Fuck you, Senju,” Madara glowers. Tobirama could swear his spiky hair actually _bristles_ in irritation, just like a cat's. “And we should really start getting a hang of our powers.”

“Are you only saying this so you can learn my Water Dragon Jutsu and attempt to terrorize me with it?” Tobirama asks, feigning suspicion.

“There’ll be no attempting about it. I _will_ have my revenge for every single insult.”

Tobirama huffs out a laugh. “We’ll see who has the upper hand, Uchiha. I suggest we meet tomorrow then. After my training session with my students.”

Madara nods. “Fine.” He’s picked up Kagami from his lessons often enough, whenever Hikaku was too busy with village and clan bureaucracy, to have memorized Tobirama’s training schedule.

At that thought, Tobirama realizes there’s one thing he unambiguously likes about his new soulmate—Madara’s begrudging love for children.

That’s one thing in common, at least.

Madara shivers and crosses his arms— _again_ —and Tobirama suddenly realizes, now that he’s looking at Madara more closely, what’s been throwing him off about the gesture today. Madara doesn’t just seem uncomfortable; there are miniscule twitches in his muscles, the near-constant grimace marring his face, as well as rigidity and tension that speak of pain rather than cold or embarrassment.

“Tell me,” Tobirama says, finally approaching Madara of his own accord. “How much does it hurt?”

Madara flinches as Tobirama touches his shoulder, then immediately relaxes under the touch, letting out a deep breath.

“It’s fine. It’s manageable. I’ve had the whole day to meditate on it and it’s _crazy_. Like every fucking living thing flinging its chakra at my senses tenfold, and it _hurts_ ,” Madara complains, slightly leaning into Tobirama’s touch.

“It’s only ever been overwhelming for me, maybe a bit dizzying,” Tobirama says, frowning. “It’s probably the added burden of a chakra affinity completely opposite yours.”

Tobirama reminds himself, forcefully, of the inherent irrationality of fear and, before he can think better of it, wraps his arms around Madara’s shoulders, returning his favor from this morning. Madara sags against him after a moment of shocked stillness, letting out a drawn-out sigh of relief as he uncrosses his arms and returns the hug, tentative, gentle, as if expecting Tobirama to withdraw at any moment.

And there’s the guilt again. Tobirama can barely remember the last time he’d felt it nag him so many times in the span of a single day.

“What’s changed?” he prompts, breathing in the soft, slightly sweet scent of Madara's hair.

Madara lifts his head and stares at him for the few moments it takes for him to figure it out.

“Oh. I don’t know,” Madara says, dropping his forehead on Tobirama’s shoulder once more. “All I feel is your chakra when we touch. Well, mine. It’s familiar. Helps me focus and ignore all the others, to an extent. But I can’t focus on one signature at a distance.”

“Hm. Neither can I.” Tobirama remembers something. “Did you spend all day hugging Izuna then?”

“Carried him piggyback style.”

“Can’t imagine he was happy about that.”

“I didn’t give him much of a choice,” Madara says, smirk evident in his tone. “He escaped my clutches just an hour ago to go whining to Tōka.”

Tobirama snorts. What a world it would be if he could embed such moments for blackmail in an image without resorting to drawing from memory. Perhaps using a lens that could gather light and concentrate it… but that’s an experiment for later.

His current experiment is to determine which one of them gives in first and ends the embrace, which is steadily getting more awkward with each moment they stay like this. There’s not much Tobirama can do, and he’s not about to throw Madara back into the pit of chronic pain just because he feels uncomfortable—and even that is questionable, at best. He, too, finds himself focusing on the raging ocean where there was a sizzling fire before, and Tobirama would be lying if he said it didn’t feel good.

(A little too good, if he were being completely honest, but it’s probably the stupid bond affecting his perception.)

Madara pulls away first after a few long minutes, taking a step back but not quite letting go of Tobirama’s shoulders, touch light and lingering. He mutters his thanks but otherwise stays silent, contemplating Tobirama with an almost imploring gaze.

Tobirama reaches to gently pry Madara’s hands off his shoulders.

* * *

  1. ~~“I’d better get going.” _Before this gets any stranger,_ Tobirama finishes in his mind. “I’ll figure out a way to fix this for you. I promise. It’s just a matter of refining chakra control, but I have an idea for a seal as a short-term solution,” he says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile.~~
  2. ~~He is, of course, compelled to offer to help but he _hates_ how vulnerable it makes him feel. Madara still hasn’t uttered a word, though, and seems intent on continuing to suffer in solitude. That’s something Tobirama will not—cannot—allow.~~  
 ~~“Should I… May I stay?” Tobirama flinches at his crooked phrasing. “To help with the pain?”~~
  3. “Sleep with me,” Madara blurts out and immediately slaps his palms over his mouth, shaking his head and mumbling what Tobirama supposes is a much-needed clarification. He realizes the inherent stupidity of that action soon enough, drops his hands and shouts, “ _That’s not what I meant, godsdammit!”_



~~**Click[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdy8_yrExap4Vgvf2i2vGuGiEKu8deEAfrgKtMZHIBOiH_pbw/viewform?usp=sf_link) to vote** ~~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just… thank you for being patient with me. ‘Tis the month of a lot of work, goddammit >.> Also I refined and rewrote and restructured this chapter so much and I just?? My praise goes to the sacred story circle and the holy duality—Joseph Campbell and Dan Harmon—for kicking me out of this mild case of writer’s block. Or, chapter block. IT’LL BE OBVIOUS WHERE I STRUGGLED MOST XD 
> 
> A couple of you pointed out how great 2 and 3 would mix, so I hope it’s okay I settled on a mix between the two with peak flaily 3 staying the winner :D 
> 
> survey comment replies updated over [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> Hope you enjoy another longer read!

_Tobirama is, of course, compelled to offer to help but he hates how vulnerable it makes him feel. Madara still hasn’t uttered a word, though, and seems intent on continuing to suffer in solitude. That’s something Tobirama will not—cannot—allow._

_“May I—” he starts._

_“Sleep with me,” Madara blurts out and immediately slaps his palms over his mouth, shaking his head and mumbling what Tobirama supposes is a much-needed clarification. He realizes the inherent stupidity of that action soon enough, drops his hands and shouts,_ “That’s not what I meant, godsdammit!”

It takes every ounce of Tobirama’s self-restraint to keep himself from smiling and instead give Madara his most unimpressed stare.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Madara shrieks, all but vibrating with fury. “Shut up!”

“ _I_ have yet to say anything,” Tobirama says, “while _you’re_ the one waking up your neighbors.” _And Izuna, probably,_ Tobirama supposes, dreading the moment he’ll have to endure his friend’s reaction to this mess.

“You’re talking _now,_ ” Madara growls, then manages to take one full breath and hopefully gather his thoughts before speaking, for once.

“What I meant—” Madara tries to clarify, at the same moment Tobirama decides he might as well get another laugh out of this, and says, “You want a stable sex life, yes, and we’ve established that it’s a little too soon for that, have we not?”

“ _Godsdamn you, Senju!_ ”

This time, Madara is _definitely_ pissed off enough to disturb the koi again and launch hurl another stream of water Tobirama’s way. This time, though, Tobirama shifts to dodge it easily enough.

The water trickles back into the pond as Madara glares murder at him, and Tobirama doesn’t bother to hide his grin.

“I couldn’t resist.” Really, it’s immensely satisfying to watch Madara make a fool of himself, soulmate or not. But because Tobirama doesn’t consider himself a complete lost cause when it comes to politeness, he says, “I’m sorry. What did you mean to say?”

“See if I tell you now, dumbass.”

Tobirama doesn’t avoid the unnecessarily hard punch to his arm, chuckling as Madara huffs and stalks off towards his house, shoulders stiff and head held high.

Tobirama waits.

He’s seen enough of such petulance from Hashirama to know what’s going to happen next. He’s fairly sure he can even time it.

Predictably, Madara stops in his tracks before he barrages through the front door. He slowly turns back to Tobirama, frown and pout in place, looking much like a disappointed child.

“You’re not leaving?”

“Not without giving my soulmate a proper goodbye, of course,” Tobirama teases, echoing Madara’s words from before, and—well. Madara _definitely_ blushes this time. That’s an intriguing point to keep in mind.

“You are so _fucking_ infuriating, Senju,” Madara snarls. “Idiot.” He runs a hand through his hair, releasing another put-upon sigh before gritting out his poor excuse for a response. “I meant that you could…” Madara runs a hand through the hair shrouding his face, managing to only make it messier. “If you want—like, fuck… you know.”

He makes a quick, incomprehensible gesture with his hands and falls silent.

 _What a disaster_.

“I don’t, in fact, know,” Tobirama prods.

He takes the few steps towards where Madara is shuffling on his porch and _still_ blushing furiously, staring intently at the ground. Tobirama does actually have an idea of what Madara is getting at, but he’d like to hear it from the man himself.

After all, if Madara is supposed to be his soulmate, he’d better get a grip of his eloquence at some point, because Tobirama is _not_ willing to spend the rest of his life stuck with a literal _child._

“If you,” Madara continues, fidgeting with his hands now, “wanted to—stay and help with—because the pain and I—and you feel okay when we—touch—hugging. _Ugh_. Whatever.”

“What you mean to ask,” Tobirama finally takes pity on him, “is whether I’ll stay for… a sleepover? So I can help with the pain you’re feeling?”

Madara’s whole body droops in a perfect imitation of Hashirama’s ‘depressive’ episodes. “Yes.”

He’s bent his head so far down all Tobirama sees in front of him is the spiky black mess that is his hair. It looks coarse and tangled, but Tobirama remembers how soft it felt, a part of him wishing he could touch it again.

Tobirama shakes his head at the strange thought. Another side effect of the bond, probably.

“I’d like that,” Tobirama says, softening his smile as Madara’s eyes snap to his.

“You would?” he asks in a high-pitched voice. “I mean. Okay. Oh. Right. I mean of course you would.” Madara flinches. “I didn’t mean to say that last part either. Shut up.”

“Do you have no filter whatsoever,” Tobirama asks, incredulous, “between what you think and what comes out of your mouth?”

“Shut. _Up._ ”

Tobirama huffs out a laugh and raises his hands in surrender.

Without another word (but with enough jumbled grumbling under his breath about ‘stupid Senjus’ to make himself resemble a cranky elder) Madara grabs Tobirama by the collar and hauls him into his house, waving his hand at the space in lieu of a welcome.

It’s a much more lived in home compared to Tobirama’s, hints of a clumsy presence all over the place. What Tobirama can see of the kitchen from here is an ungodly mess, and he glimpses a grand fireplace in the living room he’d have loved to curl up to, normally, if not for the sweltering heat of his current chakra. The walls are covered with paintings of Izuna and people who are probably the rest of Madara’s family, of landscapes familiar to Tobirama only from his brief and rare forays onto the Uchiha’s former territory. He wonders if the paintings are Madara’s own, and a love for art is another thing they share in common.

Tobirama would ask now, if the silence they’d found themselves in wasn’t beyond awkward.

“So.” Madara fidgets again, staring at Tobirama expectantly. “Get ready for bed?”

Tobirama shrugs. “That _is_ what you invited me for.”

Madara gives him an annoyed look for some reason; Tobirama supposes he’ll have to get used to those. He has a fleeting urge to mention that he’d wanted to propose the same arrangement for the night, to make Madara more at ease—but the admission feels too vulnerable, frightening even, and so he stays silent, watching Madara flit about bringing him extra clothes and a toothbrush.

Another amusing tendency of Madara’s is his pushy attitude when he’s nervous; he practically shoves Tobirama into the bathroom, ordering him to get ready. Tobirama reins in his teasing this time but can’t help but groan as he unfolds the sleeping yukata Madara’s offered him, the all too familiar uchiwa sown onto its back.

“Don’t you have any clothes without this accursed thing?” he asks, wondering if it’s really worth changing from his rumpled attire.

“Nope,” Madara answers cheerfully. “Deal with it, Senju.”

Tobirama makes a note to ask Mito, when she comes back from her travels, how to deal with a soulmate who’s a constant pain in the ass.

Large amounts of ice-cold water do nothing to quell the scorching fire in his coils, so Tobirama gives up soon enough. Stalling is another thing he isn’t used to but catches himself doing quite a lot of it in hopes of derailing the moment he has to get into bed next to—Madara.

Madara Uchiha.

His soulmate.

It still seems like something out of a lurid dream, if not a nightmare.

They find themselves lying down shoulder to shoulder, staring silently at the ceiling, neither of them willing to break the awkward silence or fall asleep.

Tobirama sighs.

“I have an idea for a seal that can help you deal with the pain while you’re learning to control my chakra.” He intended to say something completely different, like comment on the fact that they’ve ended up lying on top of the covers even though Madara obviously feels _cold_ , but his own nervousness gets the better of him. “A matrix that’s a bit challenging, but if I use the same principles used for chakra masking, only to tune it down to a more comfortable—”

“Senju.”

“Hm?”

Tobirama glances to the side to see Madara frowning at him, seeming genuinely concerned.

“ _I’ve_ been in pain all day, but you, too, look like death warmed over,” he says, moving to lie on his side and curling his hand over Tobirama’s forearm. “Think about it tomorrow.”

“But—”

“ _Tomorrow_.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes but relents, allowing himself to relax as much as he can, still lying on his back as Madara curls next to him. He casts his usual jutsu to adjust his dreams for the night, then carefully, slowly channels some of his chakra outward, hopefully enough to keep Madara warm, and judging by his contented sigh, it does the job.

It’s a testament to how exhausted Tobirama feels that sleep overtakes him almost instantly after he closes his eyes, the soft, pleasant thrum of their intertwining chakra a comforting, grounding force.

He doesn’t know if he imagines the soft ‘Thank you,’ whispered so quietly he can barely hear it, but regardless, he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

**End of Arc I: Truce**

*

**MADARA**

Madara awakens feeling refreshed and oddly comfortable, with vague memories of surprisingly enjoyable dreams. A pleasantly warm weight rests atop him, quiet birdsong echoing from the outside as the sun’s rays caress his eyelids.

The morning seems perfect.

Right up until the second he opens his eyes to see a fluffy mass of white-gray hair right under his nose and his sleep-addled brain informs him that it’s Tobirama Senju using Madara’s chest as a pillow.

Which doesn’t make _any fucking sense._

What is he even—oh, right.

Memories of yesterday’s wreck of a conversation rush through his mind and he curses himself, as well as all the gods that thought it’d be a fun idea to bond him to this insolent prick.

(The insolent prick who has his arms slung around Madara like a godsdamned octopus, which really shouldn’t feel as good as it does.)

Deep breaths. No panic. Everything is going to be fine.

All Madara has to do is wake him up and push him off, not necessarily in that order.

It’s then that Tobirama squirms against him in search of a more comfortable position, just so happening to press against Madara’s crotch—and _of course,_ Madara’s cock is half-hard.

 _Fuck,_ his thought process stalls.

That’s just his luck. Virtually nonexistent.

He attempts to reposition them to disentangle them at least a little, but that proves difficult with Tobirama’s iron hold. To make matters worse, he clutches at Madara _harder_ after just the first hints of movement.

_Fuck._

“Senju?” Madara tries, a bit panicked as he tries and fails to ignore the tingling arousal building in the base of his stomach, spurred on by the mesh of their chakras sending wave after wave of soft, thrumming pleasure through his limbs.

_Fuck._

On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t wake Tobirama just yet.

“I hate you,” Madara whispers, not quite sure whom he’s talking to—Tobirama, the gods, or himself.

Using more of his strength but still being slow and careful, Madara forcefully flips them over, pins Tobirama’s wrists with his and lifts his hips to avoid… unnecessary friction.

Well. That’s one problem solved.

Despite the scuffle, Tobirama _somehow_ remains asleep, and a slight frown is his only reaction to the movement.

The sight makes Madara pause.

It’s so _strange_ seeing him like this, unbothered by bureaucratic concerns or obsessive research, completely relaxed next to someone who was, not too long ago, an enemy. With long white lashes resting on his cheeks, lips slightly parted and his hair strewn on the pillow, chest rising and falling with soft, even breaths, Tobirama looks… unthreatening. Approachable. Peaceful. It’s mesmerizing in a way that makes Madara lament his lack of Sharingan so he can’t embed this rare occurrence into memory.

The thought seems normal, until it doesn’t, and the panic returns full force.

_Fuck._

He scrambles off the bed and, ignoring the pulses of pain returning to gnaw at him and goes to sit at his desk, willing his heartrate to _slow down, godsdammit_.

 _It’s just the bond,_ he thinks, _and a mild case of morning wood._

Nothing to panic about, right?

Except there is. There’s still the exhilaration and the sheer bewilderment he feels at the situation fate’s gotten him stuck in. The realization that after a whole life spent searching, _yearning_ for a soulmate he’s finally found his. And that despite the hostility, despite the insults and quips the Senju keeps throwing his way just to be annoying, Madara foolishly, desperately _wants._ Wants something he can’t have, because Tobirama isn’t nearly as enamored with the idea of a life partner as Madara would expect… anyone to be, really.

But as he often is, Tobirama is an anomaly.

Not in any negative sense, as Madara has come to find out in the year he’s gotten to know him off the battlefield.

(Although he _had_ been guilty of uttering the occasional insult when the peace talks were just starting, and tensions were high. Back then, Tobirama had been known as nothing more than the Senju _demon_ , the Senju _freak_ among his clanmates—for his ruthless reputation and the terrifying, unheard-of jutsu he created.)

It took Izuna working the one project with Tobirama at the start of the village’s construction. Cooperating with the man made him realize that Tobirama was all right, really, which spurned his ensuing rambling about his new “best friend—I can’t _believe_ he’s not my platonic soulmate, nii-san,” and that made it all the more easy for Madara to stop seeing Tobirama as a lingering threat.

He began to see, instead, that Tobirama stood out not with his freakish experiments but his genius, working around jutsu limitations and making scientific breakthroughs like it was nothing. It was jarring, too, that he seemed to take their village even more seriously than Hashirama did, presenting plan after plan for every sphere ranging from infrastructure to electricity to the educational system, all written up during his teen years, way before peace between their clans was a possibility. He performed unthinkable feats with his water jutsu (and Madara hadn’t even _suspected_ that blood manipulation was in the realm of possibility), was proficient in all five elemental releases and easily the best sensor in Fire Country, and yet _still_ managed to make it all look like no big deal.

Like it was a given.

Madara sighs. The man is an intriguing paradox. One that he’ll have fun trying to solve, he thinks.

A glance back at the bed has him shaking with laughter at the sight of Tobirama hugging _a pillow,_ now that Madara is out of his clutches. One thing Madara would never have guessed about the man is how clingy he is in his sleep. And that he is, apparently, by no means a morning person, despite how organized and scarily efficient he is at every hour of the day. Now he’ll have the striking image of Tobirama cuddling a pillow (and possibly drooling all over it) to juxtapose to that.

His soulmate is a ridiculous man, indeed.

Madara diverts his eyes when Tobirama turns again, dragging the edges of his yukata to open up more of his chest— _that’s_ definitely not a distraction he needs right now.

It’s at that moment that he feels a suddenly much sharper jolt of pain that almost makes him cry out if not for his lungs feeling as if they’re on fire.

Madara tries to stand and promptly falls over to his knees, the pain crippling to the point that his vision starts blacking out.

_Ah, shit._

Probably someone overpowering a jutsu nearby, or throwing an unnecessary temper tantrum, or some _thing_ monstrous passing by the village and assaulting his senses—the increasing pain makes it impossible to focus on trying to figure it out, and Madara shuts his eyes in hopes of drowning out the world around him.

 _Hopefully,_ it isn’t an attack, because Madara is as good as dead if he’s forced to defend himself.

He calls for Tobirama but isn’t sure whether any sound actually comes out. He manages to keep himself from falling face-first to the floor, but just barely, supporting himself on shaky hands as icepick blades chip away at his strength and consciousness. There’s loud banging echoing from afar, getting nearer and further away intermittently, and suddenly the whole room is pulsating with energy, the wood beneath Madara’s palms starts burning with hostile energy. Madara manages to curb an impending to a muffled grunt and huddles to the nearest corner, overwhelmed and hurting, desperately willing this to stop.

_Gods. What a terrible way to die._

Only he doesn’t, and the throbbing agony subsides the instant he feels all-too-familiar hands on his shoulders, a distant but soothing voice saying Madara’s name over and over again.

_Tobirama._

His touch is… safe. Easing the pain almost entirely, enough for Madara to reopen his eyes—and promptly close them again just to block out the sight that greets him.

“ _Ugh._ What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

The _one_ person Madara had spent the whole of yesterday avoiding, whom he wasn’t ready to face, what with the inevitable overemotional reaction and the very predictable questions— _Hashirama_ is there, kneeling next to his brother and staring at Madara with that annoying puppy-eyed look of his.

“Madara, what’s wrong?”

Predictable question number one.

“Are you injured—you look injured—where does it hurt?”

Two.

“And Tobi, why are your eyes bleeding? Why are your eyes _the Sharingan?_ _What the hell is going on?_ ”

Three. Four. Five. Ad infinitum.

Madara responds with a glare.

“Can you get him out of here?” he says, tilting his head to Tobirama, who’s running his hands softly along Madara’s back, his arm, through his hair. It would feel heavenly if not for the eyesore that is Hashirama’s concerned face ruining everything— _and_ his monstrous chakra that still causes him pangs of pain, despite Tobirama’s closeness. “Please?”

“Anija,” Tobirama says, albeit uncertain, “it really isn’t a good time.”

“But Tobi, you’re both wounded!” Hashirama looks torn between moving to heal one or the other, fingers already glowing green. “Madara, where does it hurt? Did you have a fight like I _explicitly_ asked you not to?”

Madara growls, recoiling from the idiot’s hands and banging his head against the wall behind him. It doesn’t even make the migraine worse than it already is.

“Madara isn’t hurt, Anija.” Tobirama reaches to run his hands through Madara’s hair, massaging his scalp softly. Gods, but how quickly that curbs the. Madara isn’t letting Tobirama anywhere out of his hold from now on. “We’re soulmates. We exchanged chakras just yesterday, so we’ll be adapting to the different natures for a while.”

Hashirama gapes.

“Soulmates. You. _You two?_ ”

Madara scowls. He himself had much the same reaction but it still irks him to see Hashirama, the ever-sappy fool, as shocked by the news as he was.

“Yes,” Tobirama replies, “Madara seems to be overwhelmed by my sensing range and the unfamiliar chakra is causing him pain. This,” he points to his eyes, tinged red and bleeding around the edges, “is the effect of the Sharingan.”

“Let me.” Hashirama moves to coat Tobirama’s eyes with iryo chakra. “You should have come to me the minute this happened, Tobi. You know the initial side-effects of bonding can be _permanent_.”

“I’m fine. And this isn’t just the bond’s side-effect,” Tobirama says, pausing for a moment before he goes on, “it’s the Mangekyō, in general. Apparently, it deteriorates eyesight.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Hashirama asks stiffly. “Madara?”

Madara stays silent, ignoring Hashirama’s frown and the way he shoots Madara that look of utter disappointment before returning his focus to the task at hand. He watches Hashirama strain with whatever manipulations he’s attempting, hesitant to admit even to himself the slight hope he feels, that maybe, just _maybe_ , this is the one thing that’s going to work.

Hashirama lowers his hands, a deep frown on his face, as Tobirama clutches at his eyes with a quiet hiss of pain.

“It’s… not working,” Hashirama admits, “I have no idea how but… I-I think I only made it a bit worse, is all.”

“ _WORSE?_ ” Madara would have hit him, were it not for Tobirama holding him back. “Hashirama, get the fuck out of here before I do something _you_ will regret.”

“I won’t,” Hashirama says, pinning Madara with a glare of his own. “Not until you explain why you didn’t tell me about this before.”

“Because it’s none of your concern,” Madara snaps.

“That’s what you said to me, actually,” Tobirama says, just to be contrary, it seems, “and we’ve talked about that—”

“It’s not the same, Tobirama, and shut up!” Madara shoves him off and away in a fit of foolishness. The pain submerges him once more and he gasps at the force of it—not for long, because Tobirama is back again, arm wrapping around Madara’s shoulders, chakra grounding him, soothing and comforting.

All the things he doesn’t really deserve, does he?

Hashirama looks torn again. Madara takes a deep breath. Hashirama is not to blame for his chakra, and his concern is understandable. There’s no need to be so harsh with him. Madara forces himself to ask nicely.

“We can talk later,” he tells his friend, keeping his voice even, “ _please_. Just not now. Leave and tone down your chakra while you’re at it.”

Hashirama frowns, confused. “But it’s how it always is when I’m not actively using it.”

“He’s right,” Tobirama says, throwing Madara an apologetic look. “It’s all over the place, all the time.”

“Oh, _great_.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about, though,” Hashirama insists, with all his Senju stubbornness that Madara is _really_ getting tired of as of late. “How long have you known about what the Mangekyō does, Madara?”

“Since I was born,” Madara says, “I’m not the only one with it, obviously.”

“Then why the hell did you use it so much during the war? You should have told me—”

“You just said, _the war_ , treehead. Our clans were at war. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Not use it? I wouldn’t have gone as hard as I did. You’re my friend, you know that!” Hashirama is, of course, oblivious to the implicit insult in that statement. “Or, I don’t know, you could’ve accepted the peace earlier?”

“Can you forget for one second about your godsdamned peace?” Madara says upon an exasperated sigh. “Just this once?”

“Not really, when an earlier stop to the war could have prevented your eyes getting this bad!” Hashirama waves his hands to the Mangekyō still burning bright behind Tobirama’s half-closed eyelids. The man looks just about ready to strangle them both. “This—this bleeding and the _dead and unhealable cells!_ ”

“Senju—" The vase and the glass of water on his desk fracture as Madara senses, viscerally, how the water in the pond outside, in every piece of plant life starts churning in response to his anger.

“Anija, please,” Tobirama implores, placing a hand on Hashirama’s shoulder, “just let this be for now. I’m working— _we’re_ working on a way to fix this.”

“Glad to hear that, Tobi, awesome, _amazing_ ,” Hashirama says in a tone that does little to match the words, standing up to pace in front of them, riling up his chakra even more because apparently, he’s an utter idiot. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have just come to me earlier, Madara, and—oh, _I_ don’t know, prevented the countless deaths in the war? Kept not just yourself, but your clanmates from going blind? Discovered your soulbond sooner, for gods’ sakes?”

For a while, Madara is at a loss of what to say. It’s too familiar an accusation. Such a familiar pain—the reminder that no matter what Madara does, it’s always wrong, or mediocre, or lead to disaster. Somehow, coming from Hashirama this way, it’s so much harsher than when Tobirama blamed him for the same inaction.

Neither brother knows that Madara issued a decree forbidding everyone without an Eternal Mangekyō from using it the second he became Clan Head. That little to nobody listened to him, unwilling to let him bear the brunt of the burden in the war. That he couldn’t even begin to understand where to look for answers to keep his people from being blinded by this curse, the elders too stuck up their ideals to try something that might possibly upset the gods—and too loyal to his father’s ideals to even consider the prospect of peace until the volatile ultimatum Madara had faced them with.

( _A failure,_ so many voices call from his memories, _you always will be._ )

“There were reasons I couldn’t, dumbass,” Madara says, tone biting, holding back the chakra that yearns to lash out at his friend. “And oh, what a delightful _fucking_ experience. A soulbond so painful it makes want to kill myself.”

It’s an unnecessary, spiteful remark he utters only because he’s peeved that Hashirama, of all people, would know how much a soulbond means to he, knows where to strike the hardest.

Madara feels Tobirama flinch just after he realizes what he’s said.

“Wait—I didn’t…” It’s too late, as always, to hold back his thoughtless, _stupid_ words. Tobirama is still there with him, still holding on to him, albeit with a face that’s back to its neutral, unfeeling expression. “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t appreciate you upsetting my brother, Madara.”

And now Hashirama is _truly_ angry at him. Even better.

Madara glares at him, facing Hashirama’s dark eyes glowing with a light-green hue, his chakra permeating every piece of wood on the room, clashing against Madara’s senses.

“We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down then,” Hashirama says in what Madara’s dubbed his ‘Hokage voice, “And I expect a more coherent explanation. Tobirama?”

The man in question lifts his head. Madara half-expects Hashirama to bark out a command at him, but the words he utters next are soft, almost hesitant, “Will you come with me?”

Madara turns his head away, feeling his eyes prickle with treacherous, unshed tears. _Of course,_ he’s ruined everything once more. With words said in anger, without thought or reason—something Izuna incessantly warned would get Madara into trouble again and again, but Madara never listens.

And now his soulmate is leaving, the sliver of progress they’ve made towards some kind of relationship squandered by Madara’s stupidity.

Then again, another thing Izuna keeps telling him is to own up to his mistakes. So Madara does, forcing himself to look back at Tobirama, hoping to the gods his expression doesn’t reveal how utterly dejected he feels.

* * *

  1. Tobirama contemplates him for a few torturous moments, face impassive, then turns back to face his brother.  
“I’m sorry, Anija. But I’m going to have to stay.” Its evident, the strain in his voice, the way it pains him to say it, but his chakra feels determined, steadfast, almost protective as it winds further around Madara’s own. “I’ll find you the minute I get to the Tower, I promise.”
  2. ~~Tobirama is looking at the floor, face marred by a frown. “We’ll meet today as we decided. After work. You know the training ground.” He gives Madara’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll try to have that seal ready for you.”~~



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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I present to you a very… unusual interpretation of Hashirama. Neither the happy-go-lucky nor the smiling-sociopath nor the downright dark versions of him totally satisfy me, so in this he's gonna be somewhat of a mesh between the first two. And way more context about his reaction in the next chapter :3 (but looking for feedback & criticism. as always. meow)
> 
> Also—more on the different directions the choices would have taken in the end notes of a future chapter next week :3 (I have to finish just a couple more work projects, then I’ll be free. Meow)
> 
> And a huge, HUGE thank you all so much for all your amazing comments <3 each one means the world :3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sweet jesus this was a long one XD hence the longer than longer than usual wait, but i was also really, really, REALLY nervous posting this chapter and i sincerely hope the wait was worth it💕 Now, a few quick announcements:
> 
> 1\. THANK YOU for all your thoughtful comments, some of which are like literal essays, and please, never apologize for their length. I usually didn't get a lot of feedback on my fics, rarely ever long comments, so this is incredibly motivating and just downright amazing. Plus, your thoughts more often than not COMPLETELY upturn my plans for each next chapter, and it's wonderful to see the story evolve like this💕💕💕💕 Y'ALL ARE TOO AWESOME
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> 2\. [A half-assed but still more in-depth than Kishi's overview of Konoha's administrative system in this fic because a village full of deadly shinobi can't be run solely by a Hokage, a council of bitchy elders and the deadly shinobi themselves, sincerely Lou](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c645db85-a5a7-49a9-be79-5cb753a2c067/ddvym7v-9c8072b5-2ae2-4c20-94dc-df30efdaf998.png/v1/fill/w_1049,h_761,q_70,strp/artboard_1_by_louiserandom_ddvym7v-pre.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9OTI5IiwicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvYzY0NWRiODUtYTVhNy00OWE5LWJlNzktNWNiNzUzYTJjMDY3XC9kZHZ5bTd2LTljODA3MmI1LTJhZTItNGMyMC05NGRjLWRmMzBlZmRhZjk5OC5wbmciLCJ3aWR0aCI6Ijw9MTI4MCJ9XV0sImF1ZCI6WyJ1cm46c2VydmljZTppbWFnZS5vcGVyYXRpb25zIl19.FJlCYx9iqMQWtO6XdUXPW5LHhml86jWuy5jdMYmsTrk)
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> Hope you enjoy!💙💙💙

_Tobirama contemplates him for a few torturous moments, face impassive, then turns back to face his brother._

_“I’m sorry, Anija. But I’m going to have to stay.” Its evident, the strain in his voice, the way it pains him to say it, but his chakra feels determined, steadfast, almost protective as it winds further around Madara’s own. “I’ll find you the minute I get to the Tower, I promise.”_

It's akin to a dream, and it’s all Madara can do to keep himself from gaping like an idiot.

The same surprise flashes on Hashirama’s face as he says,

“But—Tobi, he just—”

“And _you_ just implied Madara doesn’t care about his clan,” Tobirama cuts him off harshly, “without knowing all of the facts. Which is something I always warn you against, Anija.”

Madara blinks rapidly at him, suddenly not so sure that he isn’t caught in a genjutsu of some sorts.

 _Why_ would Tobirama defend _him?_

(Why would anyone is the more appropriate question, considering Madara’s quite long list of failures that he has long come to terms with.)

He expects more protests from Hashirama, or some kind of show of petulance, but instead he simply wilts, snapping his gaze to the floor.

“Right,” he says. “You do.”

Tobirama sighs. “Please, give me just a little time. I’ll be there soon, all right?” There’s a tinge of hurt in his tone, which is bordering on begging, as he keeps his eyes on his brother, trying to convey something wordlessly. “And I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

Hashirama looks at him then, long and hard, before kneeling down to give Tobirama a brief hug. They exchange a few whispers and, without another word, without so much as a glance in Madara’s direction, Hashirama leaves through the open window.

His departure brings with it much-needed relief, and Madara finds himself finally able to take a full breath.

“Thank the gods,” is the first thing he says. His brain then catches up to what he _should be_ saying. “Fuck—I mean, I’m sorry!”

He doesn’t know what compels him to draw Tobirama closer, but he does just that, wrapping him in his arms and clinging like a complete idiot, only he doesn’t care for posturing at this point. Head nestled on Tobirama’s shoulder, he can’t quite see the other man’s expression, but hopefully his apology will get through to him.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean what I said…”

“Madara—”

“…it’s just that everything hurts, and I can’t fucking _stand_ it, and I’m an idiot. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now but just… fuck what I said, okay? It isn’t true. Fuck me, fuck my stupid mouth…” Madara mentally kicks himself, mortified at the very explicit images the words evoke in his brain. “W-wait, don’t, don’t do _that,_ I mean— _godsdammit_.” He sinks further into the ground, begging the gods to just end his pathetic existence or teleport him the fuck out of here. “Sorry?”

Tobirama is shaking against him… crying? The notion fills Madara with dread; but no, he realizes as he pulls away, Tobirama is _laughing_.

Of course.

“Madara,” Tobirama manages to say through fitful chuckles, “disregarding your unconscious desires for sex of the oral variety, I’m not actually angry.”

“I want the strangle life out of you,” Madara says, moving his hands to lie threateningly at the base of Tobirama’s neck, “but I’m also glad to hear that. You’re a contradiction, you know that?”

Tobirama shrugs, a lopsided grin on his face, which does nothing to make him look less intimidating what with the Sharingan burning in his gaze and the blood streaking the outline of his eyes, though the active bleeding has thankfully stopped. Madara wants to say as much (respectfully), but Tobirama throws him off yet again.

“If anything,” he says, “I should be the one apologizing. I’m afraid Anija’s behavior was solely my fault. And I hope you realize he didn’t mean most of what he said, too.”

The grin falters as he looks toward the window Hashirama had left through, expression wistful and full of the same pain and regret that had colored the brothers’ whole previous conversation.

“Most,” Madara echoes, too well aware of the aspects of his life and personality Hashirama is bound to disapprove of, though he’d never actually said anything up until today. “What was his deal anyway? I’ve never seen him like that. It was like he was possessed or something.”

He huffs out a chuckle that dies as Tobirama’s face gets all the more grim.

“It’s my fault,” Tobirama repeats, turning back to meet his eyes. Madara asks, hands massaging Tobirama’s neck and shoulders of their own accord. It seems to relax his muscles though, so that’s a plus. “Anija and I were supposed to have dinner at his place. It completely slipped my mind, with all that went down yesterday. He gets lonely when Mito and Tsuna are away and there’s no one around the house, so I usually keep him company.”

Madara stares, waiting for more clarification which doesn’t come.

“I mean no offense,” Madara says, tentative, “but is your brother five? He gets lonely and _that’s_ why he was acting like a…”

He gives up searching for the appropriate word just as Tobirama comes to the rescue.

“An ass, I know,” Tobirama says. “But Madara, he, quite literally, wasn’t himself.”

“As in?”

Tobirama sighs heavily, and it’s obvious how hard this is for him, whatever _this_ is. But Madara senses there’s something big he’s not seeing here, important facts that he’s missing, and it aggravates him to be clueless about what the hell is going on.

“Anija insists on hiding this from you, but I believe you have every right to know. He says he’s worried it would bother you too much, that you wouldn’t understand and in the same breath calls you his best friend. It’s baffling.” Tobirama shakes his head. “When he’s alone, he tends to suffer from the Mokuton’s side effects the most. Hallucinations, hearing voices and the occasional panic attack. And from what I’ve gathered, its intensity seems to be much higher than that of the Mangekyō. At least, what I experienced when I got it was still a far cry from what I’ve seen Anija go through.”

“Oh.” Madara doesn’t really know what to say to that. It sounds strange. Unreal. Like Tobirama is talking about a completely different person, not the one man Madara envies precisely because he seems to have no care in the world. “Wait a minute, what the _fuck?_ ”

“I know. I myself found out… not under the best circumstances,” Tobirama admits. Madara suspects that’s an enormous understatement. “I’m usually the one who keeps him company when he feels lonely, but as I said, I forgot.” His lips curl in a humorless smile. “I’m the idiot here, it seems.”

“No, no, no, wait, fuck.” Madara takes in a calming breath. Exhale. Keep calm. He can do this. “I didn’t know. The idiot should have told me, and you _shouldn’t_ have stayed with me, Tobirama. Just—go to him.”

“It’s all right.”

“He’s your brother!”

“And you’re my soulmate.” Warm hands cover Madara’s own where they’re still resting on Tobirama’s shoulders. “He’s not in critical condition, and he’s probably headed to the Tower, where there’s enough people around. He’ll be fine.” There’s still a hint of worry in Tobirama’s voice that Madara decidedly _doesn’t_ like.

“Are you sure about that, Tobirama? Because I can deal with the fucking pain, and if Hashirama is in danger then you should _go_.”

“I will,” Tobirama assures him, chakra flaring protectively, just a touch shy of too hot as it hits Madara’s senses. “Right after you and I both calm down. I know Anija better than anyone else, I know what his worse episodes look like, and I can tell now you need me more than he does. An hour more won’t do much difference.”

The admission makes Madara’s heart skip a beat, despite the worry wracking him, getting stronger with each passing second as he frantically traces back all his interactions with his friend, wondering how in hell he could have missed this.

“Why didn’t he just find you sooner?” Madara wonders. “He tracked you down somehow, didn’t he?”

“Exactly. He should have done so, as soon as he realized I wasn’t coming.” Tobirama shrugs. “It gets to his head sometimes. He feels like it inconveniences me, or something. It’s the same flaw of logic that keeps him from telling you about this.”

Madara pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s so jarring, almost unbelievable, that Hashirama, the hyper-friendly, boisterous goofball who always gets in everyone’s face _worried_ about inconveniencing his brother. Tobirama, who is known to be the top victim of Hashirama’s hugs and senseless conversations, seemingly annoyed by them but never once fleeing from Hashirama’s attention, at least as far as Madara can remember.

“What if he had one of those worse episodes last night?” Madara asks, unable to help himself. Guilt scratches at his insides, berating him for failing to be attentive enough, perceptive enough. “And that’s why he didn’t come sooner?”

Another smile that doesn’t reach Tobirama’s eyes.

“Believe me, Madara, if he does happen to have one of the _worse_ episodes, we’ll know.” Tobirama’s tone sends shivers running down Madara’s spine. “Those only ever happened a few times before, because of very traumatizing events, so relax.”

“You make it sound easy,” Madara scoffs, yearning to know what exactly said events were, but not sure he’s ready for the answer. “And right back at you.”

He raises his fingers to hover over Tobirama’s eyes, damning his inability to perform iryo jutsu when it’s most needed. Hashirama seems to have already done most of the work though. There are no physical wounds in sight, although Madara senses the Sharingan’s corrosive influence on the cells inside Tobirama’s eyes, sees the bloodshot whites, the burst eye vessels, wishes he could take the pain back and make it exclusively his problem again.

But that will need time. And with Tobirama by his side researching his dōjutsu, Madara might not actually have to suffer these consequences for the rest of his life. Hope doesn’t seem like such a dangerous endeavor now, with Tobirama stoking the spark of faith he has for a brighter future.

It would be much easier to focus on those thoughts, too, had Tobirama not chosen Madara’s face as an anchor to ground his Sharingan.

_Again._

It’s as effective as last time, if not more so, and a few moments later Tobirama’s eyes are back to their usual dimmer red. A prettier color.

“How do _you_ feel, Madara?” Tobirama rubs his fingers over Madara’s hands, which he’s still holding.

Madara is compelled to yank them away because the sensation feels just shy of _too pleasant,_ but that’s their sole point of connection and he could do without the sensory overload.

“Is there nothing else in the room for you to focus on?” he answers with a question of his own. “I mean, I’ve got an interesting room.”

And it’s true; Madara’s room is an organized mess of artworks, painting tools, books, unfolded clothing, _anything_ Tobirama could center on instead of _him_.

“You have,” Tobirama agrees, the playful glint back in his eyes, “but I like your face more. You look funny in the mornings. Almost harmless.”

The _bastard._

“Well, you look stupid when you sleep, Senju,” Madara snaps in hopes to conceal his embarrassment. “You’re all clingy and you hug pillows like a little kid. It’s disgusting. Also, do you have _any_ idea how many times I could have killed you when you were asleep? How are you even a shinobi with shitty reflexes like these?”

All Tobirama does during Madara’s short-lived rant is lift an eyebrow, like it’s _Madara’s_ behavior in question here.

“I assure you, my reflexes are perfectly intact. I’m usually a light sleeper, but I modified my dreams a bit last night.”

That sounds suspicious. “Elaborate.”

Tobirama has that look on his face that he always does when he’s caught red-handed in the middle a dangerous experiment in-progress or wading through its consequences.

“A Yamanaka I once rescued returned the favor by helping me develop a technique that allows me to have perfectly lucid dreams whenever I want while retaining all the knowledge I have,” he explains. “I used that time to work on the seal I told you about. I’ve figured out most of it, so I’ll try to finish it up during work breaks today.”

“You what.” It’s an absolutely mind-boggling (and intriguing) notion, but Madara supposes it’s high time he stopped being surprised by Tobirama’s bullshit after a year of being in proximity to the crazy genius.

“It’s a useful technique,” Tobirama argues. “There seriously isn’t enough time in a day to take care of everything I need. And it does put me into a deeper sleep than usual,” he admits sheepishly, “but I do trust you enough not to actually hurt me. You’d be too sick of Anija’s crying.”

“You do realize,” Madara says through gritted teeth, “that a part of the day should be reserved for this pretty significant thing called _rest?_ Do you actually get proper sleep when you ‘dream’ like this?”

Tobirama blinks at him rapidly. “Proper sleep is a relative concept?”

“Godsdammit, Senju!”

Of course it is, for Tobirama, who ceaselessly alternates between dangerously manic and downright exhausted; even now, despite his earlier peaceful-looking sleep, he seems to be suffering from a case of the latter. Madara releases one of his hands from Tobirama’s hold to jab a finger into his chest.

“Tonight, I am personally going to place you into bed, _no weird jutsu business_ , and make sure you go to sleep like a normal fucking person for at least twelve hours.”

“Twelve whole hours? Really? Don’t you remember what a _troublesome_ week it’s going to be, Madara?” Tobirama reminds him of the impending hassle of the Nara delegation arriving tomorrow for talks about a possible trade partnership.

Madara groans. Calling it a busy week would be an understatement.

“And why do you suddenly care about my sleeping habits?” Tobirama asks.

“Because you are impossible and an asshole who doesn’t care enough about his health because of misplaced altruism, and as your soulmate, I am dutybound to rectify that—but also thank you,” Madara finishes quietly.

“Come again?” Tobirama asks, feigning innocence. “I didn’t hear that last part.”

Madara is so done with this. The man is fucking _impossible_.

“I am not ungrateful for your unnecessary yet admirable effort!” Madara bellows, patience officially expired. He hauls Tobirama to his feet and shoves him not-so-gently towards the door. “Asshole. Now get your shit together, _out of my house_ and to your idiot brother.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, a self-satisfied grin not unlike Izuna’s on his face. “You’re very welcome.”

Madara thinks he might finally understand why his little brother likes him so much.

*

Tōka laughs, because of course she does.

Madara has long since accepted that she feeds off other people’s pain, _especially_ when it’s pain she inflicts, be it with a casual prank or an especially aggressive sparring session. She and Izuna really are a match made in the Pure Lands.

“Yes, haha, very funny,” Madara deadpans, glaring at Tōka across the chabudai as she struggles to regain her composure, leaning into Izuna’s side. “Anything else you want to add? Either of you? Perhaps how hilarious it is that Tobirama might go blind or that I’m now in chronic pain?”

The glare he directs Izuna’s way falls short, what with him purposefully avoiding Madara’s gaze and staring out of the window, ignoring all three of them. The little shit was the one who ambushed Madara and Tobirama and dragged them in for an impromptu breakfast at his and Tōka’s in the first place, but as expected, the revelation of just how bad Madara’s Mangekyō had gotten didn’t go over well. Madara had lots of experience hiding things from his brother and hadn’t actually divulged the full story to him yesterday, but with Tōka’s added interrogation it was a do-or-die situation. Her special brand of revenge for Madara evading her the whole of yesterday.

“I’m sorry,” Tōka huffs through fits of laughter, sounding thoroughly unapologetic, “it’s just that you two being _soulmates_ was bound to be a disaster, but I would never have guessed it would be this big of a disaster, you know? It’s like fate bound you together you and is now actively sabotaging everything _and_ you’re helping it along.”

Madara scowls, half-tempted to throw his unfinished cup of tea at her, only that would be more or less signing a death sentence, and however painfully embarrassing his life might be, he does enjoy it quite a bit.

As if hearing his thoughts, Tobirama squeezes his hand where their fingers are linked under the table, molding more of his chakra through the point of contact to calm Madara down. He’s being quiet, letting Madara do most of the talking, but the impatient unease is clearly evident on Tobirama’s face.

Madara sighs and carefully does _not_ slam his cup down on the table. “Yeah, well it’s hardly our fault,” he grumbles.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Izuna says testily, looking over at him, finally. “I mean, _maybe_ if someone had mentioned that the Mangekyō was already long past making him half-blind, we could have done _something_ sooner and Tobi wouldn’t be in so much pain. _Or_ if someone had told me yesterday that Tobi’s presence helps with his chronic pain the most, I would have dragged him here and _you wouldn’t need to fucking suffer so much, nii-san._ ”

That gets Tobirama to perk up, and he speaks before Madara can muster a retort.

“What do you mean drag me here?

Izuna stares. “Well, I would have asked for your consent or. Something.”

“I could have said no.”

“And I would have figured something out,” Izuna waves him off.

“I was actually spending that time researching the Sharingan, Izuna, so I _was_ helping Madara,” Tobirama says, defensive, “just remotely.”

“Oh, great. What an idiot genius we have here,” Izuna says, rolling his eyes. “Tobi, repeat after me: for the bond to settle properly, soulmates are advised not to leave each other’s side the first few hours after it’s formed. That is the peak of stupidity.”

“What he said. You both brought at least part of this onto yourselves,” Tōka adds helpfully. “Separation makes mastering your abilities a bitch in the long run.”

“Nobody told me that,” Tobirama growls, his eyes trained on Madara. “I wonder why.”

Madara sighs. Another day, another people-induced migraine. He wonders, sometimes, how it would be to just seclude himself in a cave somewhere and live away from civilization, with no one to annoy or embarrass him. That’d be one hell of a boring existence though.

“I honestly thought you knew,” he says, too tired to let irritation seep into his tone, “and just wanted to be away from me.”

“I told you I barely cared about soulbonds, Madara, couldn’t you have gotten the hint?”

“How are you so fucking smart in everything but so clueless about something so intrinsic to, well, life?” Izuna asks.

“I wasn’t even sure I had a soulmate,” Tobirama says, making Madara stiffen. What is he talking about? _Everyone_ had a soulmate, save for the unfortunate, inherently jaded people with unexplainable deviations in the tenketsu points near their brain.[1] “So I didn’t care as much.”

“Fuck, Tobi.” Izuna shakes his head, looking genuinely baffled. “You’re supposed to be a scientist. The probability of that is miniscule—of course you’d have a soulbond!”

“Thankfully, the shithead elders that heavily implied that about Tobirama are long since rotting in their godsforsaken graves,” Tōka says, sounding almost as if she, personally, killed them. It wouldn’t be a surprise; Madara definitely would. “And guys, never underestimate little Tobirama’s cluelessness in everyday life.”

“Tōka,” Tobirama says in a threatening voice, “this is very much uncalled for.”

“What? Am I not being a good future sister-in-law by warning Madara that you tend to burn down the kitchen when you attempt to cook?” She dodges the spoon Tobirama throws her way. “Also, you’re going to have to teach him everything about romance, Dara. He once quite literally interpreted a crush as someone trying to assassinate him.”

“D-don’t fucking call me that!” Madara stammers, feeling the treacherous heat of a blush on his cheeks.

His only comfort is that Tobirama is flustered as well, for once, turning to look away with a childlike huff.

“Actually,” Tōka drawls, “as your elder _and_ smarter future sister-in-law I have the right to call you whatever I damn well please.”

“And that’s a fact, nii-san,” Izuna says, the fucking traitor. “My personal favorite is Midget Madara, it really highlights the shortcomings of your personality.”

Madara bristles. “You’re one inch shorter than me, brat!”

“Well, you’re shorter than everyone else in the room,” Izuna points out.

“Tōka and I are the same height.”

“Only because of your hair, Dara.”

Madara barely refrains from hurling the chabudai at the two of them; that would mean letting go of Tobirama after all. He defers to colorful insults and a whole lot of cursing instead but soon has to admit defeat in the pissing contest; though Izuna and Tōka are manageable by themselves, as a team they’re damn near unstoppable. He simply grumbles under his breath as they devolve into arguing about some new nickname for him or other.

Madara tries to remind himself that apart from being complete and total shitheads, they’re his family and he loves them (at least a little bit).

He’s still acutely aware of Tobirama, who has his gaze set on the window beside him, his grip on Madara’s hand tight, grounding, radiating warmth and comfort. It hasn’t been long since Hashirama’s departure and it’s still early morning, but the spike of longing in Tobirama’s chakra is an obvious sign he yearns to get to his brother. Madara loathes to let go, but still.

“Want to ditch these two?” he says. “We’ve been here enough and Hashirama must be waiting for you.”

“Hashirama?” Tōka pipes up.

“We had a bit of a disagreement,” Tobirama says, looking meaningfully at his cousin, and her gaze darkens as she probably realizes what must have happened; Madara hadn’t exactly shared the details of _that_ confrontation. “And I couldn’t agree more.” He squeezes Madara’s hand and gives him a look full of sympathy and… amusement. “Though you realize as Heads of the founding clans you and Tōka will have to review the paperwork for the Nara’s arrival, right?”

_Oh, fuck._

“Fuck me sideways, the Nara,” Tōka whines, burying her face in her hands. “I almost fucking forgot. Why did I agree to become Clan Head instead of you again?”

“Because Anija needs an assistant who won’t maim him every time he turns his paperwork into greenery,” Tobirama offers his standard explanation for whenever Tōka gets too pissed with her duties.

“Right, right, the _coward._ ”

Izuna places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “And since I’m going to be busy refining our proposals with the Commerce Department, you’re going to have to keep nii-san from self-combustion. I assume my chakra would be more suitable to keep him at ease.”

Madara’s senses are assaulted with the distinct wave of a chakra exchange between the two. Tōka’s eyes light up momentarily with the Sharingan before she deactivates it with a blink. The possibility of Tobirama someday achieving the same level of control with Madara’s eyes is both terrifying and exhilarating, but the matter of his eyes quickly deteriorating into complete blindness looms over his head like an explosive tag ready to blow.

“Whatever.” Madara turns to Tobirama. “You’ll be busy all day then?”

“Afraid so,” Tobirama says. “We’ll review your and Tōka’s documents but besides that Anija and I have to wade through heaps of diplomatic correspondence and have talks with that foolish envoy from Kumo threatening war because their government officials apparently can’t read.” Madara snickers at the annoyed tone. A pissed off Tobirama is always fun to watch.

“I can imagine how hard it is with Mito still in Uzushio.”

“You can’t,” Tobirama says, voice pained, “but we’ll deal with it. Though I think this evening is the only free one I’ll have this week, so we should make sure to get at least basic training done with our new powers.”

“Oh, training?” Izuna asks. “Already? Be sure not to burn anything, Tobi, you remember how it was with Tōka’s first forays into Fire Release.”

“Of course.” Tobirama scoffs. “Unlike some people, I am capable of being careful—and I’ve already mastered all the nature transformations anyway.”

“Don’t be cheeky, cousin,” Tōka singsongs, “or does your face already miss my fist so much?”

Tobirama only rolls his eyes.

“Speaking of revenge,” Izuna points a finger at Madara, “don’t think I forgot about you hiding the extent of the Sharingan’s damage from me, nii-san. You’re going to have to _beg on your knees_ for my full forgiveness. I’m going to prank you to death and make you the laughingstock of the whole village until you do, you have been warned.”

Madara groans.

Which gods did he upset for his life to turn into such a fucking nightmare?

*

Although Tōka is as much a pain in the ass as Izuna when they talk outside of the offices, she is scarily efficient in the office and actually pleasant to work with. Despite the copious amounts of paperwork they had to prepare and the countless calculations and documents transferred to them from Commerce, their workflow wasn’t too hectic, even with the added hassle of Madara having to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Tōka to ground his volatile chakra somewhat.

Regardless, no amount of work, time passed or casual conversation with Tōka managed to distract Madara from the recurring thoughts of Tobirama and, more importantly, Hashirama’s current state of mind. Too many questions remained unanswered, too many worries unassuaged, and Madara help feeling the intermittent pain he identified as Hashirama’s chakra once he forced himself to focus on it, a constant reminder of the man’s presence in the Tower. 

Madara even glimpsed him and Tobirama in the corridor when he and Tōka allowed themselves the one short break for tea. Both brothers stopped to take care urgent paperwork delivered to them on the go, and Hashirama seemed to be his normal self, hyperactive, cracking jokes over a provision he didn’t understand and whining for Tobirama to please take care of it and give him more negotiations to do instead. Madara had to avoid the duo—even standing a good few feet away made the excruciating pain double in intensity despite Tōka’s closeness—but the encounter made him think all the more about the way Hashirama behaved that morning, the implications of what Tobirama had told him.

“If I have to tell one more joke to fill the silence, Dara, I am _literally_ going to go insane,” Tōka says, twirling her empty teacup in her hands as Madara’s stands nearly untouched on their table. They’re seated next to each other, and the pleasant thrum of Izuna’s chakra radiating from her is a calming force against the chaos of Madara’s thoughts. “Come on. Where’s the shrieky flailing trashfire I know and love?”

“Technically, the fire in my chakra was replaced by water, so I’m a trash droplet now, if anything,” Madara says wryly.

“My, my, self-deprecating humor? Not even one insult my way?” Tōka shakes her head. “This seems serious. Come on, out with it. You were fine in the morning, weren’t you? Wait, is it because you and Tobirama are apart? Already homesick for your new soulmate?” she coos.

Madara crosses his arms.

“No.”

“Then… what? Are you in too much pain? Do I need to give you a hug?”

“Hell no.” Madara picks up his tea, takes a sip, grimaces at the disgusting, cooled down taste and signals for another teapot. “Hashirama.”

“Oh, right. You’ve seen one of his, uh, moods.”

“And it was like seeing another fucking person,” Madara grumbled. “Has he always been like this?”

“Pretty much ever since he discovered the Mokuton,” Tōka replies, filling up his cup when the teapot arrives and shoving it in his hands. Madara frowns. Even the tea seems to hot, so cold his skin has become after the exchange. “Since he was six, I think. That’s when Tobirama was born. Some clan elder dared say something against him and Hashirama lost it, and suddenly we’ve got out first Mokuton user in a hundred years. He was pretty much venerated after that, although most of us knew of this… problem.”

“Okay, first of all, why was your clan so hostile to Tobirama?” Madara demands.

“That’s his story to tell,” Tōka answers, ignoring Madara’s scowl. “Don’t be like that. Communicate with your soulmate. It’s the first thing you both should have done and somehow fucked up, so do the work yourself.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, midget.”

“We are the same fucking height!” Madara shoves away Tōka’s hand as she makes to ruffle his hair. What a menace. “Tell me then, did Hashirama really keep something as fucking serious as the Mokuton affecting his mental stability from me because he apparently thinks so little of me that he was sure I wouldn’t be able to understand or help?”

Tōka presses her lips together to hold back a grin. She fails.

“What the fuck,” Madara glowers, “is so funny to you?”

“Oh, it’s hilarious, you mean,” Tōka says, “how dense both you and Hashirama are. Madara, tell me, how much do you know about him, really?”

Madara opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. Really thinks about it. Of course, he knows his friend well enough—Hashirama never shuts up about himself, his family, whatever crazy shit he pulled at one gambling house or another on any given night. He talks about his ideas for the village, about his principles, his dreams, his goals, he cries his heart out whenever he sees something emotional or when Tsunade does… anything, really. But the unsettling events of today morning brought Madara’s attention to the even more unsettling fact: he’s never actually seen Hashirama _sad._ Except for the time he first saw him grieving about the death of his little brother, then right after their fallout and—that’s it. Even their battles never drew any emotion from Hashirama other than frustration and anger with the prolonged cycle of war.

Madara didn’t know anything about Hashirama’s vulnerabilities, if only because he seemed to have none.

“I’m guessing the right answer to that question is ‘not much,’” he says, glancing sideways at Tōka. “And for once, I’m tempted to agree with you.”

“Good job, Dara. Let me spell out the problem for you: you two met when you were fourteen and stupid and were friends for, what, less than a year before your fathers found out?” Madara nods stiffly. “And then you went through _thirteen_ godsdamned years of war, then one year of grueling peace negotiations—which still show up in my nightmares by the way—and we’ve only just tentatively celebrated one year of flimsy peace. Do you really think that _one year_ of acting like you’re still kids and content to just skip rocks over the Naka makes up for fourteen years of separation?”

Tōka pauses, and Madara assumes she’s waiting for an answer that he really doesn’t want to articulate. She gives him the Look though, so he surrenders. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Exactly,” Tōka says, flicking Madara’s forehead that he doesn’t bother to dodge. “You’ve both changed. Hashirama maybe more so.” She drums her fingers on the table, a sign Madara knows to mean she’s concealing her nervousness. “He keeps telling us the shit with the Mokuton keeps getting worse each year but does his best pretending he’s fine. He could really use his old friend right now.”

“So could I, Tōka,” Madara sighs. “So could I. Also, I hate it when you’re this perceptive.”

“Wrong. You know you’d be long dead without Izuna’s and my advice on social subtleties, right? Probably killed by some kunoichi you’d offend but refuse to hurt.”

Madara bursts out laughing. “Well,” he says, “that _did_ almost happen once.”

“Oh? I’m listening.”

Madara tells her, because if Izuna hadn’t shared that particular story with her yet, he will at some point—and will inevitably twist the facts. And with the heavy thoughts of an impending difficult conversation with Hashirama, as well as the tingling anxiety he feels before today’s meeting with Tobirama, Madara finds comfort in the one unexpected friend he’s found in this new, still imperfect world they’re trying to build.

*

“This is fucking impossible,” Madara agonizes, two hours into his training session, finishing the kata Tobirama demonstrated and cursing every single god in existence for this madness. “Why do you need such rigorous strength training to improve water chakra control? And why is this kata so inconsistent? Isn’t water flowy? I expected this to just be flowy.”

Tobirama stares at him in exasperation. “Flowy?” he says, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Madara, have you actually observed water when it’s trying to kill you? Like a tsunami or a Water Dragon? What about them is _flowy?_ ”

“Ugh, just—water in general is flowy!” Madara throws his hands up. “Fuck. The word is starting to lose its meaning.”

“So will your training if you don’t put more effort into perfecting your form,” Tobirama chastises him. “That’s a better try but still atrocious. Let me show you again.”

Madara watches as Tobirama slides smoothly into the starting stance of the kata again. His movements are fast but fluid just for the few moments before he shifts to a yet more rigorous and punishing pace, hands slicing through the air with such force that Madara is sure if he were augmenting them with chakra the movements would create massive gushes of wind. He finishes without breaking a sweat, while the same couldn’t be said for Madara, who’s already feeling tense and tired if only because of the frustration of ceaselessly repeating the forms but being told he’s doing it wrong each time—something he hadn’t experienced since childhood.

“What you’re forgetting is to relax your core,” Tobirama says.

He approaches Madara to correct his starting stance from behind and—gods above and below he has to touch Madara’s bare arms and torso _again_ which nearly obliterates Madara’s composure. Thankfully, he manages to keep his mouth tightly shut.

“Fire Release is based solely on the strength and engagement of your core,” Tobirama continues, “while manipulating water involves the whole body. To get used to Water Release, you’ll need to learn to switch seamlessly between what you call ‘flowy’ and rigid, unmalleable form, especially when you move from here,” he guides Madara into a low, gliding movement that ends in a brisk set of kicks, “to here. Again?”

Madara takes a few quick steps away from the enveloping warmth that is Tobirama’s chakra, turning round to face him but carefully avoiding the man’s eyes as he slips into practice once more.

Tobirama is right; it isn’t like Madara’s usual dance. Fire in any form remains a dynamic, volatile element that requires constant energy to power it. Water is similar, in some respect, but can also be perfectly still ice or barely light steam. Now, if he keeps that in mind—

He botches it right in the middle, taking too much pause between the changes in movement types. _Well, fuck._ Madara silences Tobirama with a glare once he gets to the end and starts over, more aware of how he tenses and relaxes his muscles, focused on how his now controlled chakra ripples and rushes through his coils, following his motions.

It feels liberating, despite the challenges, to be back to some kind of training after he missed yesterday’s session, and the constant activity serves to block out troubling thoughts about Hashirama and what went down that morning; Tobirama never mentioned it, so Madara didn’t ask. What’s more, the seal Tobirama devised works wonders, and Madara feels no hint of the earlier pain. Though it does block Madara’s sensing abilities almost entirely, sensing the focus of today’s exercise.

Madara attempts to get his imagination on board, imagining the quiet, rhythmic flow of a river when his movements are more fluid, then recalling the powerful, destructive jutsu Tobirama would perform during battle: mountain-high, tsunami like waves, thunderstorms that would flood the whole battlefield, water bullets that raged, relentless, flying and slashing through his opponents…

He gets to the end and comes to with a deep breath, chancing a look at Tobirama.

He’s smiling. Well. That’s a good sign.

“Far from amazing,” Tobirama says, because apparently, he’s only generous with his compliments when they’re directed at his hell spawn brats, “but you’re finally getting the hand of it.”

“I’ll see how well you do when we get to _your_ training,” Madara sneers.

“Please do.” Tobirama smirks. “I can’t wait to hear your unparalleled expertise, Madara-sensei.”

Madara does a double take which Tobirama, hopefully, doesn’t notice. “Take your cousin’s advice and stop being cheeky. I can obliterate you under normal circumstances.”

“May I remind you that we’ve never actually fought? So you’re basing that statement on zero evidence.” Which Tobirama hates of course, the hopeless scientist that he is.

“All the evidence I need is in the fact that I’m stronger than you.”

“And I’m faster.”

“Please. You only need to stumble once.”

“Well, train me so that I don’t.”

Madara smirks. “If you can keep up. Let’s see, where do we start?”

He stretches out his arms, his mind running through the cursory katas used to enhance fire nature mastery he can remember his Senseis Riku and Yuma teaching him. Just as Madara is about to start, he catches Tobirama watching him with a strange, almost conflicted expression on his face.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Tobirama answers a little too quickly, gaze snapping away to look at the setting sun. “Nothing—just get on with it.” The pink and orange hues of the sunset paint a pretty blush on his face.

Madara shakes his head to distract himself from the sight.

“Watch and learn,” he says with a bit too much flare, admittedly, launching into a stance but almost faltering when Tobirama walks towards him and stares intently at his movements. He recalls that Tobirama has to deal with his shit eyesight, though, and belatedly realizes what he should have asked him to do first. “Listen. The basic version of the Sharingan causes you no pain, right?”

“No.” Tobirama closes his eyes for a few moments, frowning in concentration, before opening them to reveal, thankfully, just the three-tomoe Sharingan spinning fast as he accustoms to it. “Continue.”

Madara does. And soon goes back to cursing the gods once more, because of course, Tobirama repeats his movements ideally, the cheater.

(Granted, even when Madara challenges him to learn a kata sans the Sharingan, he manages just fine. Obviously, Tobirama’s study of the five nature releases must have been more in-depth than Madara’s checklist of powers he’d wanted to accrue just for the hell of it. It’s no less frustrating to admit defeat.)

“How does your chakra feel?” Madara asks, watching ( _not_ ogling, just observing closely from an educational point of view) how Tobirama dances through the newest forms, legs moving just a little too rigidly to be _just right._ “This is a difficult one. Watch your footwork.”

“All right,” Tobirama pants, and Madara can’t quite help tracking the beads of sweat he can see clearly, for once, no Sharingan required, gliding from Tobirama’s forehead down to his neck and disappearing into the black of his shirt.

“Keep your movements just a bit loose,” Madara says just as Tobirama gets through the last form. “Almost perfect.”

“You’re full of shit. That was exactly how you did it.”

“Accept the compliment, Tobirama, while I’m still generous.”

Tobirama only laughs. “And to answer your question, my chakra feels fine. Great, even, though I’ve still yet to get used to the heat.” He wipes away the sheen of sweat on his forehead, steadying his breathing. For some reason, he’s chosen to keep on his shirt despite the heat still lingering in the evening and the chakra that must doubtless be as hot as Madara’s is cold.

“Then strip,” Madara says before he can stop himself. “I mean,” he grits his teeth, “fuck. I meant that you’re hot— _it’s_ hot, so just take your fucking shirt off, Senju!”

“Well, considering what I’m planning to try, that is a good idea.” Tobirama ignores Madara’s stammering but _there’s that lopsided grin again,_ and Madara feels like he’s drowning in wave upon wave of embarrassment.

Especially so, once Tobirama drops the shirt to reveal pale skin over toned muscles glistening prettily in the moonlight, peppered here and there by patterns of scars but otherwise seeming so soft to the touch.

Madara gulps. “Uh, planning to try what?” he manages to ask in a more or less normal voice.

“Just a little spark.”

Tobirama points forward with his arm, gaze concentrated straight ahead, and Madara is just a touch too slow to stop the idiot from what he attempts to do.

Attempts and fails miserably (at least Madara hopes this wasn’t his end goal), because a moment later the world lights up in a white-hot fiery explosion, the force of it knocking Madara off his feet. He barely lands in a crouch after managing a somersault.

“Fucking Senju,” he curses, “if you died, I’ll use Edo Tensei on you just to kill you again, you bastard!”

“I’m fine!” Tobirama shouts from the smoke, rubble and singed grass the once undamaged training ground has become. “Fuck.”

Madara douses the burning trees surrounding the area with water haphazardly drawn from a near-lying pond. An element which, thankfully, isn’t as harmful when used in excess. He follows the sound of coughing, cursing, and spluttering, ending up before a thankfully unwounded Tobirama, although his pants might be in need of a bit of stitching.

Madara gives him his best disapproving glare.

“So how is Tobirama Senju faring,” he drawls, “who unlike some people, is capable of being careful and has mastered all five nature transformations?”

“Shut up.” Tobirama blinks away the dust in his eyes. “That was a slight miscalculation.”

“You can admit you had a jutsu accident, Tobirama,” Madara taunts, “I won’t judge.”

“It wasn’t an accident!” Tobirama snaps, rising to his feet and rubbing at the stray spots of ash and soot off his skin from the roughly dozen of trees he’s burnt. “This was the product of an insignificant misstep borne of incomplete data and… a somewhat misconstrued perception.”

“That’s just an accident with extra steps.”

Tobirama lifts his hands in defeat. “I didn’t expect your chakra to be so fucking enormous. Nobody died. Drop it.”

Madara heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Homework,” he announces, motioning for Tobirama to follow and leaping towards the nearest tree to pluck a leaf from it. “Since we live Hidden in the Leaves and all, this exercise should be appropriate. Make a small fire at the center,” he says, handing the leaf to Tobirama, “and keep it from reaching the edges as long as you can. We won’t have time to properly train this week, but this should benefit your control.”

There’s no explosion this time, but the leaf does incinerate in a flash of flames when Tobirama tries it. Madara shakes his head.

“Incorrigible man. Now,” Madara commands, “choose your homework for me, after which I’m dragging you to your home, to sleep, because we both have to get up at five tomorrow for the fucking Nara to arrive.”

“No more training?” Tobirama asks with an honest-to-gods pout.

“You’ve caused one explosion already and seem to be lacking a sense of self-preservation,” Madara says, “most likely due to your lack of adequate sleep last night.” He touches the seal Tobirama had inked onto his forearm. “Thank you for this. But you seriously need some shuteye.”

“You’re just like Anija,” Tobirama mutters, surveying the training ground before settling on the mass of trees as well. “Your exercise will be similar, but perhaps a bit harder. I can’t exactly demonstrate it right now, but try to extract the water from the leaf, then put it back and revitalize it. The revitalization part is what’s important.”

Madara tears off another leaf, summoning the water out of it with surprising ease as it's drawn to his chakra. It takes all of five minutes glaring at the dried up, crumbling thing for Madara to realize he's getting absolutely nowhere.

“I have never heard of anyone being able to do that,” he says, “is that a real exercise or are you fucking with me?”

“Proceeding to ignore your subconscious desires, Madara—”

“GODS, SHUT THE FUCK UP, SENJU, YOU KNOW THAT’S NOT WHAT I FUCKING MEANT—”

“—yes, this is something I, myself, practiced doing,” Tobirama continues over Madara’s screaming, grin wide and eyes glinting with derision. “I didn’t know a lot of what I did wasn’t normal until the first time someone pointed out it was deemed impossible to use water jutsu without a water source.” He shrugs. “No one I know managed to manipulate the water in plant life, though, but since you’ve got my chakra, it should be possible.”

“Fine!” Madara bellows. “Fucking fine! I’ll do it. Now get the fuck out of my sight before I do decide to continue our training and beat you to a bloody fucking pulp.”

“And hurt your soulmate? I don’t think so, Uchiha.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Tobirama laughs at him, the bastard. Then his expression softens and he asks, “Do you feel all right, though, Madara?” He touches a hand to Madara’s shoulder, making him feel suddenly several degrees warmer. “The seal works? Do I need to stay the night with you again?”

“Um,” Madara blanches. “I. What would, uh, your brother say?”

It’s the stupidest thing that could have come out of his mouth under the consequences, but Madara is long past cursing himself into oblivion and chooses instead to focus on the titillating feel of Tobirama’s touch, the suddenly kind, imploring look in his eyes.

Tobirama smiles. “He’ll say nothing. We talked it out today, and he promised to find you and make amends. He’s staying at Izuna and Tōka’s tonight, actually, so don’t worry about him being alone.”

“Oh,” Madara says dumbly, “could you—would you stay? To—shit, to, well, I-could-remove-the-seal-for-the-night-and-do-some-sensing-practice-or-something,” he rushes through the excuse in embarrassment, feeling his neck and cheeks flush. _Why is this so godsdamn difficult?_

* * *

  1. Tobirama tilts his head to the side. “Good idea. We could both work on our sensing abilities before we go to sleep since we’re more at ease together anyway.” He pauses, offering a smile. “And actually, so Anija’s chakra doesn’t disturb us from nearby, let’s go to my place?”
  2. ~~Tobirama stares at him for a few moments, expression suddenly thoughtful. “Good idea, Madara,” he says, a smirk blooming on his face, “but I’ll only come with if you make a promise.”~~
  3. ~~Tobirama stares at him for a few moments, gaze searching as he seems to struggle with choosing what to say next. “If it makes you comfortable, Madara. But I would prefer some time alone, to think about everything, if my presence isn’t absolutely necessary.”~~



**~~Click[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfzeaBN7ArNepO5dPrM2PUa6-ieE5jxeHmdP8yrMN5EdoGw_Q/viewform?usp=sf_link) to vote~~ **

* * *

[1] Reference to psychopaths and sociopaths, who aren’t able to form emotional attachment to others, so it would be illogical for them to have a soulbond, I guess? Which is not to say that they are incapable of being in a relationship and/or are all violent psychos, as is believed by far too many people. More on the very misunderstood nature of those disorders, as well as ASPD, can be found [here](https://www.quora.com/Does-Athena-Walker-prefer-ASPD-or-psychopathy-How-do-you-describe-the-personality-disorder-or-are-those-two-different-things?q=athena%20walked%20aspd%20psychopathy), and yes, I’m a psychology nerd lol


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I’m seriously mentally exhausted, and not just because of quarantine. I just… ugh. Wasted way an unspeakably long time agonizing over why some of my other works sucked and didn't get much feedback. It's hard being an inconsistent writer>.> Sorry for that, I'm an idiot, but I've really been in a huge writing slump bc of that and hope to god it doesn't show in the chapter. Don't hesitate to tell me if it does tho.
> 
> That said, I’ve gotten the most feedback, well, EVER on this CYOA, and amazing feedback at that, for which I’m eternally grateful💙💙💙 Some of the things you guys said about the story and my writing are really kind, heart-warming, and truly something I don’t deserve—BUT I am working my ass off to match up to that. And to stop letting stupid stuff get to me and actually get this fic back on a regular track, because you guys do deserve more consistency. I’m getting there, I promise x) And just, thank you again for each one of your comments; they’ve truly been my chief motivation the past couple of weeks💙💙💙💙💙💙💙  
> Now, sorry for the distraction and onto the story :D The vote was THIS close, and since the crux of the matter was where the sleepover takes place, not the ‘promise’ part, I decided to mix it up a bit again :3 
> 
> **!! IMPORTANT !!** I've moved ALL survey comment replies [to this google doc](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing), with a clickable table of contents for convenience. Please tell me if it works okay :3
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!💕

_Tobirama tilts his head to the side. “Good idea. We could both work on our sensing abilities before we go to sleep since we’re more at ease together anyway.” He pauses, offering a smile. “And actually, so Anija’s chakra doesn’t disturb us from nearby, let’s go to my place?”_

“Your place?” It takes great effort for Madara to utter the words without stammering. “I mean—fine. Yes. Good. All right.” Madara flinches at the glaring lack of substance in his words, latching onto the first thought that springs into his mind before Tobirama goes back to teasing him for his ineloquence. "You're not going to make me wear Senju-crested clothing, are you? Because in that case, I'm going back home. Or home, then to your place, because—because revenge is a bad thing, you know," he finishes lamely, to the sight of Tobirama's widening grin.

"Hm. Tempting, but no," Tobirama says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I _would_ very much like a promise from you, though."

"A promise?"

"Maybe two."

"Isn't that a little greedy, Tobirama?" Madara demands, crossing his arms. "And I probably _won’t_ agree to whatever the fuck you're scheming but go on ahead."

"No scheming," Tobirama assures him, smile never leaving his lips. Madara doesn't believe him, naturally. The man is _always_ up to one thing or another. "First off, since we are to sleep next to each other again, I would very much appreciate it if you stopped complaining about my sleeping habits."

"Oh?" Madara scowls. "What, the fact that you stay awake in your dreams in defiance of health and logic or you clinging to everything unfortunate enough to end up in your vicinity?"

"Neither of those criticisms is warranted," Tobirama says, "but I was specifically talking about your baseless complaints about the latter."

"Are you touch-starved?" Madara blurts out. Shock flashes across Tobirama's face as a wave of embarrassment washes over Madara—but what? It's a perfectly normal question to ask, considering Tobirama's behavior.

(Very inconveniencing behavior, which would once again make Madara's life hell if he wakes up with a boner, but he pushes the dreaded thoughts away to worry about when and if it happens.)

"I'm not," Tobirama says, firmly but after too long a pause for it to sound authentic.

"Your subconscious disagrees," Madara taunts.

"I am _not_ in _any_ way touch-starved. I get enough of hugs from Anija and your brother," Tobirama sneers, "you're just—your skin is cold. Colder. And your chakra burns like a godsdamned furnace so I'm probably just subconsciously seeking comfort."

"Comfort," Madara echoes, suppressing his laughter to a grin. "Of course." He shrugs. "It's reasonable enough. No complaints then, I promise."

Tobirama gives him a suspicious look at the easy concession, and rightfully so; he asked for no complaints, but he never said Madara couldn't tease him about it.

Mercilessly.

"And the second?" Madara asks, radiating as much innocence as he can.

Here, Tobirama pauses, just as he's about to speak. His face melds into an expression Madara can't quite decipher—one of longing, or curiosity, or both. Perhaps something else entirely.

"I find myself lacking," Tobirama starts, then trails off again, teeth worrying his bottom lip as he searches for words.

The dreaded pressure of an uncomfortable silence washes over them, making Madara ever more conscious of the chilly wind.

“You,” Madara says, in hopes of breaking the tension, “willingly admit you’re lacking in something, Senju? Have the gods forsaken our world? I’ve missed the end times, is that it?“

“That Katon I attempted would surely flatter your hair, don’t you think?” Tobirama snaps.

“Now, now. Just an innocent jest,” Madara answers, albeit reaching with his chakra for the water in the nearby pond. Just in case. “I’m listening.”

Tobirama sighs explosively. Runs a hand through his hair. Takes a deep breath and finally says,

“I find myself lacking in knowledge about soulmates.”

Madara fails to see why the admission comes so difficult for Tobirama. Wasn't that much obvious, anyway?

“About everything that goes into a bond, really,” Tobirama goes on. “This is something I thought...” He swallows heavily. “I told you it's something thought I might not even have and certainly not at such a young age when I’m not even sure—never mind. I'd like you to tell me anything and everything you can. The history, the legends, what happens as the bond progresses. I hate having gaps in knowledge.” Tobirama flinches, and Madara supposes it takes great effort for him to keep his gaze steady, facing Madara with the same determination he had when he was proclaiming his intent to solve the Mangekyō’s curse.

It's no less jarring now.

"All right," Madara says, tentative. "But since you do apparently have access to our Archives now—"

"No," Tobirama interrupts him, "I would normally research this on my own, but since you and I are in this together, I'd like to hear it from you. Why soulbonds are so important to the Uchiha, in particular, and why this is so important to you." He shrugs. "I’m afraid my clan isn’t as enamored with the concept as yours seems to be."

"Well—of course, since your Elders apparently thought it was acceptable to imply you aren't bonded to anyone!" Madara explodes. "That's a horrible fucking thing to tell a child."

"Funny," Tobirama says without an ounce of humor in his tone, "my father considered the prospect a sign of strength. No bond meant no distractions from the war after all."

"That's disgusting."

"And something I'd prefer not to speak about," Tobirama says, jaw clenched and voice dangerously low.

Madara grits his teeth to rein in the questions he so yearns to ask, about why the Senju clan is the way it is, what wrong a child could have possibly committed to deserve the shitty treatment Madara keeps hearing more and more about. Despite the uncertainty and possible futility of their future relationship, Tobirama is his, _Madara’s_ soulmate, who is, in one way or another, tied to him for the rest of his life, and _someone_ had hurt him, _had been hurting him_ for what sounded like years—perhaps his whole life. The ice in his chakra does little to quell the rage simmering inside him at the notion, but Madara painstakingly forces himself to remain silent and at least outwardly calm. He knows enough about his own clan's history to be wary of the pitfalls of the possessiveness such thoughts may lead to, remembers all too well that he assured Tobirama that he wouldn't force their closeness, wouldn't overstep.

A bond doesn't magically manifest the ideal connection with one's soulmate, no matter how much Madara wishes it would, and that's one of life's many hard truths he's going to have to live with. Seeing Tobirama now, a frown shadowing his eyes, his fists clenched as he looks away from Madara to stare at his surroundings is further evidence that badgering him about the issue will get Madara nowhere.

Starting small, however frustrating, is still a start.

"You don't have to make me promise something like this, Tobirama, simply ask," Madara says, wrapping his arms tighter around himself against the midnight cold. The heat coursing through him from the training disappeared lamentably fast. "It's a lot to cover, and you may have noticed that we aren't exactly concise with our clan's historical accounts, but I'll tell you all you wish to know."

"I can be patient," Tobirama says, glancing at Madara with a grateful smile. "And learning about this is bound to be easier than dissecting the science behind your dōjutsu."

A silly thought comes to mind, and Madara drags the conversation further away from unsettling memories, "Will you be calling me Sensei, then?"

The disgusted grimace and eye roll are all too expected, but Tobirama's retort catches him off-guard,

"I'll be calling you _idiot_ unless you put on your shirt and stop your godsdamned shivering."

"Wh—I—it's your fucking chakra making me cold!" Madara fumes.

"Get used to it then. And you can start your first ‘lesson’ on our way to my place. Idiot." Tobirama heads to where they've left their (thankfully unburnt) clothes, leaving Madara somewhat speechless before he stalks off after the insolent ass of a man to give him a piece of his mind.

It's far from a novelty, of course, getting taunted by Tobirama, and it's easy to fall back on their usual back-and-forth of the most creative insults they can think of for each other. It is unusual, though, for it to be this casual, with neither of them taking genuine offense and slipping into the actually violent arguments which have all but become a daily ritual for them over the past year.

Madara supposes he could get used to this.

In fact, he can't wait to do so.

*

One thing Madara feels he won't be getting used to any time soonーif he and Tobirama continue this nightly trend of theirsーis the desolate emptiness of Tobirama's home.

It isn't even a house, like Madara expected it to be. With the Uchiha and most of the Senju retaining old-fashioned living arrangements with traditionally styled houses, it comes as a surprise that Tobirama lives in one of the newer apartment blocks smack in the village center, not far from the Administrative Tower. It's the highest floor (presumably because he enjoys overlooking the village from above, as Madara had often seen him do in the Tower halls), and the first things he notices are the bare gray walls of the corridor. They lead into an equally austere living room merged with a kitchen that seems just as empty and sterile.

Well. This is sad, for one.

"Do you actually live here or have you just moved in?"

"Did you actually interrupt your explanation of _the most important step_ of a bond's stabilization to ask a stupid question," Tobirama snaps, shoving off his sandals, “or am I imagining things?”

Madara ignores the comment, making his way into the living room and absent-mindedly reciting what he’s known by heart since childhood.

"There’s not much left to explain about the basics, really. Once we train enough and gain at least a modicum of mastery with our new abilities, we should be able to exchange them at will like you've surely seen others do.” Madara brushes his fingers over the chabudai to check if there's dust on it. It's squeaky clean, surprisingly. "It directly depends on the soulmates' connection to each other, and the level of trust—and you haven't got a _single_ family picture in here, Senju, what the hell?"

Tobirama fixes him with a glare from where he’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "I could revoke my invitation just as easily as I extended it, Uchiha. You either quit whining or I throw you out the window."

Madara huffs. "I'm just saying," he _definitely_ does not whine, "this place could use a little… something. Some decor, a little flare."

"I didn’t ask for interior design advice from you." Tobirama shrugs. “Besides, I barely spend any time here. It would be pointless.”

“Do you even have a bedroom?”

“Yes,” Tobirama sighs, “and that’s where we’re headed so I can put you to sleep and finally be rid of your foolishness.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“Maybe it is,” Tobirama says, tone long-suffering. “This way, Uchiha. Don’t test my patience.”

Madara follows him, but not before giving his surroundings another disapproving look. His now ideal vision allows him to glimpse what _does_ look suspiciously like a coating of dust on the kitchen drawers. This won’t go on for long, Madara decides, not if he has any say in his soulmate’s living conditions; there’s already a plan hatching in his mind for how he’s going to fix this.

For now, though, he makes do with uncanny domesticity in a decidedly unhomelike apartment.

He spends an appallingly long time basking under a hot shower, the waterflow and extendable handle so much more convenient and flexible than the bulky contraption installed back home that makes Madara more fond of taking baths. It’s Tobirama’s newest design for the newer apartments, as he explained, one that he soon plans to perfect and implement everywhere in Konoha’s plumbing infrastructure. This is yet another reminder of just how many fields Tobirama is proficient in and that the man is apparently unable to let one week pass without proposing some kind of innovation for the village. With how much he contributes to it, Madara sometimes wonders whose dream for a prosperous Konoha is stronger—Tobirama’s or his brother’s.

(Thoughts of Hashirama resurface in tow worry and uncertainty, and Madara makes an effort to focus instead on the streams of water washing over his body. The chakra in him surges and sings in answer, and he’s even able to manipulate some of the water into vaguely discernible shapes. That proves to be an entertaining distraction.)

It’s more than a little surreal, drying his air and brushing his teeth in an unfamiliar bathroom. He dons one of Tobirama’s usual black suits, which, considering the man’s leaner physique, is too small, too tight-fitting and not quite as comfortable as Madara would like.

_At least it’s fucking warm,_ he thinks, leaving Tobirama to clean up as he heads to one of the last remaining rooms in the apartment (the other being Tobirama’s mini-lab, and if it’s anything like his main laboratory which Hashirama keeps telling him nightmarish stories about, Madara would _really_ prefer to avoid it.)

The sight that greets him in Tobirama’s supposed bedroom, however, is exactly what Madara would expect his experimentation zone to look like, and he has to double check his bearings. Yes, he’d entered through the pale blue door _without_ the elaborate seal-adorned lock and the sign **DANGER. DO NOT ENTER** on it. He blinks, taking in the absolute chaos of his surroundings. Now this is a space he can believe Tobirama actually _lives_ in.

He surveys the stacks upon stacks of papers, scrolls and tomes scattered about, forming little mountain ranges of what Madara gauges to be seal theory research. There’s some theoretical physics writings he can see here and there, interspersed with the distinctively styled scrolls of the Western alchemy practitioners. _Parts_ of books lie around too, dozens of pages torn from their bindings, which is a gross abuse of perfectly good reading material that Madara can barely tolerate. He hopes to the gods Tobirama hadn’t ravaged the items in the Uchiha Archives this way. Madara’s hands are tied when it comes to murdering his soulmate, but his clan’s cantankerous elders would surely come for Tobirama’s head, deputy Hokage or no.

He’s then hit by an uncomfortable spike of guilt for his earlier comment about the absence of family photos back in the living room: one of the corners of Tobirama’s bedroom is, evidently, a shrine, ashes of burnt incense strewn about the little altar which holds two framed ink drawings of Tobirama’s brothers. Madara chances to inspect them closer, noting the brusque, confident strokes of the ink outlining the boys’ features, strangely reminiscent of Tobirama’s seal strokes. Had he drawn them himself?

Madara struggles to remember the names of Hashirama and Tobirama’s younger brothers and comes up frustratingly short. That’s another guilty realization, especially considering that _Hashirama_ remembers Togakushi, Myōkō and Kurohime from, presumably, the one time Madara had spoken about his siblings back when they first met. Since Konoha’s founding, Hashirama's been sending him little packages with higanbana and brief notes of condolences on the three days of the year Madara wishes to be left completely alone. And Madara _has_ been meaning to ask him about his brothers, had tried to pin down the days when Hashirama seemed off or aloof—but those never came. It makes Madara more annoyed than ever, both at Hashirama and himself.

_Do you really think that one year of acting like you’re still kids and content to just skip rocks over the Naka makes up for fourteen years of separation?_

“Fuck this,” he whispers to the silent room, burying his face in his hands.

_Think about this_ later _,_ he resolves, even though putting things off is what got him into most of his current mess in the first place. But nighttime and near-exhaustion really aren’t the best conditions for making good decisions; Madara has enough scars and bruises to show for it.

He goes on exploring the rest of the room, not surprised to find that the least used item in here seems to be the bed. He doesn’t spot any pictures of Hashirama, but the dozens of little wooden trinkets, figurines and plaques with positive affirmations hanging on the walls account enough for his presence, the wood polished and structured too perfectly for it to be the work of anything but the Mokuton. Madara is playing with an startlingly detailed statuette of Mito and Tobirama leaning over a seal between them when he glimpses a bit of Tobirama’s research that he hadn’t noticed yet.

Oh, gods.

Now _this_ is intriguing.

With his Mangekyō acting up the way it did, Madara had taken an amateur interest in the semi-forbidden field of seal theory that deals with time manipulation to possibly find a way to control its effects. He wonders what compelled Tobirama to venture into the field, skimming through the elegant notes on time dilation and split temporal dimensions. It’s exhilarating, if only because research into the phenomena is virtually impossible to come by, but just one page of Tobirama’s scribbles reveals at least three temporal paradoxes Madara had never even considered before. This seems like a side project, too, a part of something bigger. Madara sifts through the papers, searching for connections, repeated words and footnotes—

He ends up staring at an elaborate eight- _tetra_ gram seal with quite the number of Greater Yin and Yang variables in it that Madara is sure he’ll only be able to decipher with all seventeen tomes of Sealing Theory and Practice on hand. The main purpose of the seal is easy enough to discern, though.

“Seriously,” Madara mutters, slumping onto the bed with the matrix clutched in his hands, “you’re working on an _instant messaging seal?_ ”

“Yes.”

Madara jumps at the sound of Tobirama’s voice, turning to face him as he enters. He’s still, lamentably shirtless, stray water droplets glinting on his skin. The impropriety is wildly distracting.

“What of it?”

“How even—” Madara shakes his head as he looks over the insane sealwork again. “Listen. Come here.”

He motions for Tobirama to sit beside him. Tobirama does, with a less than pleased expression on his face.

“Explain these variables to me,” Madara demands. “This is so improbable it should be impossible. It’s purely theoretical, right?”

“Yes and no,” Tobirama says slowly, “and if I start explaining, we won’t actually get any sleep. How did you even figure out what it does?”

“I dabble. I saw your notes on temporal seals and they’re a personal interest of mine. I’m far from an idiot, so skip over the basics.”

“A personal interest?” Tobirama raises an eyebrow. “In the one field of seal theory that’s considered to be highly dangerous and basically a dead end?”

“Yes,” Madara says, “and _you_ judging _me_ is hypocritical. I usually… research the types of seals that spike my interest and ignore a lot of the general theory,” he admits, rolling his eyes at Tobirama’s disapproving look. “What? It’s boring.”

“Seal theory is _never_ boring. And why time manipulation?”

“I have my reasons, Senju,” Madara snaps, “now stop dodging the question. What kind of sequence are you using to connect the variables and how in hell are you synchronizing messages over long distances?”

“I’m not.” Tobirama scowls at the apparently offensive seal. “I’m still trying, but it does seem like a pointless endeavor at this point. Every known grid and sequence I’ve used to connect the variables to the tetragram backfires, andーhere, let me show you.”

He scrambles in the mess for two sheets of paper, places them next to each other and embeds the seal into both, taking a brush in hand and tracing a few kanji on one of them.

A split second later, identical writing appears on the second sheet.

“Holy hell,” Madara breathes. “I can think of a dozen missions where this could have saved my life instead of dumb luck.”

“If only it worked correctly at a distance,” Tobirama grumbles. He repeats the same with one of the papers placed at the far corner of the room, this time with the writing transferring with a significant delay. “I’ve been testing it with Mito while she’s away. The distance delays the seal’s effect so much that it would have been faster if I’d sent my summons… Madara what are you doing?”

Madara snatches Tobirama’s brush and starts writing out a possible solution, excitement bubbling up at the prospect of his amateur studies being _useful,_ to his soulmate, no less. He probably shouldn’t focus on the last part, but Madara would be lying if he claimed it doesn’t make him feel at least a little bit proud.

That said, he is aware it’s quite a strange idea.

“Instead of connecting the Yin-Yang variables to the grids and synchronizing them—like you do with the Hiraishin, I presume?” Tobirama gives him an odd, lingering look and nods. “Instead, try using two seals at a time and connect them through this,” Madara trails off, motioning to his proposed… thing. He swears. “I don’t know. Connective grid, I guess? Or—something. It’s a workaround for another thought-experiment I created myself and haven’t ever tested, but you understand the mechanism, right? I mean, theoretically, it should work.”

“Theoretically,” Tobirama echoes, scrutinizing at Madara’s unusual sequence. “But Madara, isn’t this like entanglement in quantum mechanics?”

“Exactly!” Madara mentally kicks himself for not using the comparison himself, since quantum theory is where he'd gotten the idea in the first place. “It happens instantaneously, regardless of distance, and so would this—theoretically,” he repeats. He’s still hyperfocused on Tobirama’s thoughtful frown, looking for a sign, any sign, that he hasn’t proposed something downright dumb.

The sign comes in the form of a grin lighting up Tobirama’s face as he turns to Madara and grips his shoulders, a slightly manic glint in his eyes.

“Madara,” he says giddily, “this is—so surprisingly smart! For you. I don’t know what to say.”

Madara gives him the driest glare he can muster, even as he mentally sighs in relief.

“A _compliment_ , Senju. Seriously, is that too hard? I shared my personal, well-researched invention—”

“Theoretical proposal,” Tobirama corrects him.

“—you _see_ the potential in it, and all you can give me is an insolent bullshit instead of a _little_ praise?”

Tobirama bites his lip, managing to curb his laughter. “Your personal, well-researched theoretical proposal is… admirable?” he offers.

Madara keeps glaring.

“Innovative,” Tobirama suggests, “incredible, if it pays off. A feat of genius so astounding—”

“Now you’re overplaying it.”

“Can nothing make you happy?”

“Shut up,” Madara snaps, “and hands off, Senju, we are not testing it now. We’ve only got a handful hours left to sleep.”

Tobirama _pouts_ at him, which really shouldn't be as endearing as it always is, and, after a thoughtful hum, activates the Sharingan for but a few moments, committing Madara’s notes to memory.

“You wrote on the sealed paper,” he explains, “it erases all text in a couple of hours.”

“Hn,” Madara says, “nice use of the Sharingan, Tobirama. I’m impressed.”

Tobirama’s eyes widen. “Oh.” He stares at Madara, his gaze then flickering away as he stands to put away the research notes, though 'put away' is a strong term to use for the way he simply tosses them onto a relatively free space on the desk. “Thank you.”

“See? That’s how you properly compliment people,” Madara says wryly.

“Shut up, Madara. And get to bed.”

Somehow, it manages to be as awkward as the first time. Tobirama _does not_ put on a shirt, the bastard, not even a light yukata for at least some sort of propriety. The warmth radiating from his bare shoulder as they lie side to side is comforting, but a little unnerving, if only because Madara catches himself wanting to lean closer.

_Fuck._

Tobirama clears his throat then and turns onto his side.

“Remove the seal,” he says, placing his hands lightly onto Madara’s wrist. Once the seal is gone, he asks, “Feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” Madara breathes, shifting to face Tobirama properly. The sudden onslaught of his chakra is forceful, but not at all painful, and it takes Madara a few controlled breaths to get used to it. The soft reassurance in Tobirama’s eyes making him feel safe. Content. “What now?”

“Close your eyes and focus on what you can sense.” Hot, crackling chakra becomes Madara’s sole point of connection to the outside world, a bright furnace against a sea of blackness that soon melds into crimson-orange bursts of light. “If it’s still just my chakra, focus on the feel of it. Think of what you associate it with. This is basically like any meditation, just concentrate on what you sense instead of your breathing.”

Madara wonders if his chakra had felt the same to Tobirama—and if Madara’s current chakra feels just as the cool, wave-like thrum alternating with violent storm-like intensity that he’s always felt from Tobirama way back when things were normal. A mere two days ago, Madara realizes with a bit of a shock; he could have _sworn_ more time had passed.

It takes him a second to grasp that Tobirama is speaking again.

“Slowly—and very carefully—try to become aware of more of your surroundings. Virtually everything is laced with chakra, so try to sense traces in objects, just in the room at first.”

It’s easy, latching onto the chakra remnants in the seals, notes, vials Tobirama has strewn around in his room. Madara is delighted to find that _every_ single chakra trace has a color, whereas with his own senses, he could only ever perceive certain tints in people's individual signatures. As he lets his senses wander outward more and more, the room becomes a conglomerate of different temperatures, shades and random sensory associations springing up in Madara’s mind, ones more layered and precise than anything he’d ever felt with his own abilities.

“Fuck,” he voices his thoughts, “that’s a—that’s a lot. You were born so sensitive or you trained for this?”

He feels Tobirama shrug. “It’s been this way ever since I was born. Apparently, I was a very loud child because of the constant sensory overload, but Anija dealt with it, somehow, as I grew up,” he says fondly, a sizzling rush of affection springing up in his chakra. "His chakra wasn't as uncomfortably enormous back then."

He can’t help but smile. He wonders if Tobirama feels his contentment, too. “I’m glad your brother was there to take care of you.”

“So am I,” Tobirama whispers, the bright-lively-gold feeling of affection shifting to grey worry. “Listen, about Anija. He truly didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Madara says, “it doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out.” He flares his chakra as mildly as he can manage, radiating it with what he hopes is pacifying intensity. “Let’s focus on this for now.”

Bit by bit, Madara reaches further with his senses with little to no painful repercussions. He gets ‘acquainted’ this way with the eccentric neighbor next door, who dubs himself a wandering bard and whose chakra vibrates with a conglomerate of sounds; with the couple living below, both disgustingly cute and in love, though not bonded, their signatures meshing with each other just a tad shy of seamlessly. Guided through the rest of the meditation by Tobirama’s soothing voice, Madara gives easily into the clutches of fatigue, listening to the staccato rhythm of chakra dancing and intermingling around him, the rush of it gradually lulling him to sleep.

*

**TOBIRAMA**

The next five days go by in a flurry of paperwork, long hours of negotiations in stuffy rooms and far too many voices competing to be heard, _more_ paperwork, pretentious dinners with the Nara representatives, _more_ _paperwork_ —so much of the latter, in fact, that Tobirama's level of disdain for it is probably on par with Hashirama's at this point. There are the handful of tea breaks he salvages, spent with his brother and occasionally Hikaku while Madara and Tōka toil away over precise export and import levels and tax reliefs with the Nara’s meticulous Clan Head.

The indomitable Nara Shizuku, a genius in her own right, is notorious for the ability to weasel in insane clauses into treaties that would trap the opposing party between a rock and a hard place based on mere technicality. And even though he and Hashirama were mostly spared her presence, stuck with reviewing the proposals trickling in from the negotiations table, Tobirama couldn’t wait for her and the rest of the Nara to pack up and finally leave.

Of course, Madara had to ruin everything. By flailing and screaming, apparently, to damn them all to further torture.

“I have no idea what the hell even happened,” Madara insists as the workweek draws to a close and all of them gather for much-needed drinks in Hashirama’s office.

Rather, the week _would have_ drawn to an admittedly disappointing, treaty-less close if not for his outburst that Tōka had recounted through gasps of hysterical laughter.

“I simply outlined how fucking stupid they all were and that the negotiations fucking pointless.”

“Yeah, if only,” Tōka scoffs, "Dara, you dragged in a blackboard and spent _an_ _hour_ illustrating how _all our problems_ would be solved if we just formed a free economic zone instead of a 'pointless' treaty. How are you surprised that the bitch extrapolated an invitation into Konoha from that?”

“I didn’t think she’d take me seriously!” Madara retorts. “I was just venting.”

“Venting?” Izuna says darkly, positioning his head more comfortably on Tōka’s lap. The circles under his eyes seem even deeper than Madara’s, for once. “Venting, he says. They’re staying for gods know how much longer, you menace, and you’ve added ten tons more paperwork to everyone’s workload. Dick.”

“The whole week of tax drafting would have been useless if they’d just left,” Madara points out, “this is a _good_ thing. And I think you mean nii-san.”

“I mean _dick._ ”

“Now, now, guys, no fighting,” Hashirama implores, handing out the last two glasses to Tobirama and Madara. It turns out to be some kind of sweet-smelling, non-alcoholic concoction. “Madara is right. This is a cause for celebration! We can’t reach peace without a lot of hard work after all. I’m just shocked that Shizuku-san rejected each and every one of my kind-worded proposals and just—said yes to one of your explosive rants,” he says, turning to Madara with a contemplative look, “you seriously should have taken the offer to be Hokage.”

Madara’s face twists with disgust. “Fuck you. Now that I know what work goes into a village, I’d rather fucking die. Say thanks I’m even dealing with this bullshit.”

“Don’t be so crass.”

“Don’t be a dickhead.”

Tobirama downs his drink in one go, sorely wishing for something stronger. Craving to intervene, too, but he's learned the hard way over the past week _not_ to attempt that with these hare-brained fools.

“I just think you’d do well to work on your anger issues, Madara,” Hashirama mutters, “it’s unbecoming.”

“And _I_ think your dumb ass butting into everything is the bane of my existence, but do you see me complaining?”

“You’re literally complaining right now, Madara.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be if you’d shut the fuck up and actually put that empty head of yours to use to figure out how to deal with the Nara.”

Tobirama misses the days when Madara's extent of insults for Hashirama was every ridiculous tree pun he could think of, when his most scathing insults would be reserved for his verbal spars with _Tobirama_. That, at least was entertaining, if nothing else.

_This_ is maddening.

“I _am_ doing that, Madara. And it would help if you weren’t unnecessarily difficult.”

“What you’re doing is wasting precious time and breath. Let me spell it out for you: shut your face, activate your brain cells and kindly stop inflicting your worthless opinions upon us all.”

What many people don’t realize about the supposed God of Shinobi, is that he’s secretly a massive coward. A quick apology to Madara—that, he can manage. Going to ridiculous lengths to avoid Madara as much as he can afterwards? Easy. One proper conversation to settle their differences? At least a short one? That is, apparently, beyond his Anija's capabilities.

Or courage.

They don’t _actually_ talk about the upcoming negotiations, of course, and both Tōka and Izuna are content to doze off on the couch to the lull of the loudening pissing contest. Tobirama, in turn, draws upon his senses to drown it out, directing them to the more peaceful areas of Konoha teeming with vigor and joy of end-week outings.

It’s a pity he can’t reach past the village to check on Mito, what with Madara’s range so woefully limited. She and Tsuna should be on their way back, though, so he keeps is awareness on the edge of his sensing radius. It’s good to have control of at least this aspect of Madara’s chakra—gods know maintaining a spark on a leaf has yet to yield anything more than embarrassingly explosive results. It’s a petty thought, but a part of Tobirama wishes Madara is having as little luck as he is with his 'homework.'

Tomorrow’s training session is when he’ll find out.

It’s in reference to said training session that Madara excuses himself once he and Hashirama start arguing about the core philosophy of the village, of all things, and devolve into a screaming match which ends in a predictable uncomfortable silence.

The idiots.

“You coming, Tobirama?” Madara demands, staring at Tobirama from beneath messy bangs, his air rumpled from all the times he’s clutched at it in frustration in the past half-hour.

Had he any less self-control, Tobirama would be doing the same. Even Tōka and Izuna have long since left, both sluggish and exhausted, giving Tobirama looks of pained pity as he lounged upon Hashirama’s desk, patiently waiting for the two idiots to calm down.

“Not yet,” Tobirama says, prompting two identical looks of confusion. “I’d like to talk to Anija first. Let yourself inside, I’ll be home soon.”

“Oh,” Madara says, blinking rapidly, “all right.” A fleeting, incomprehensible emotion flashes across his face. No hint of a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Tobirama hopes he hasn’t triggered too much of Madara’s ire. He must understand. Though Tobirama had been inseparable from his brother during their extended working hours, nighttime left Hashirama either alone, with Tōka and Izuna or at the gambling dens, and Tobirama only had his still imperfect sensing as a means to make sure he was okay.

He can only assuage his worry for so long.

“See you,” Tobirama calls after Madara as he leaves with a curt nod, though not without fixing Hashirama with one last glare.

“I do not,” Hashirama seethes right after the door slams closed, “understand his problem. And you don’t have to stay with me, Tobi, go with him. I’m fine.”

Looking far from ‘fine,’ Hashirama stalks towards the window, leaning his elbows on the sill and gripping the almost-empty sake bottle in his hand so hard that its neck starts cracking.

“Anija.” Tobirama hops off the desk, coming up to stand next to him. He pries the bottle from his hands, gives it one longing look before thinking better of it and putting it away. “You are aware that I care about you, right?”

Hashirama side-eyes him. “Um. Yes?”

“You’re my brother. My last remaining brother and therefore more important to me than anybody else in the world. Right?”

It takes a moment for Hashirama to answer, “Uh huh.”

“I also happen to look up to you,” Tobirama continues, “because a lot of what I know about life, the world and being a shinobi I’ve learned from you… your actual level of wisdom notwithstanding.”

His brother’s face twists further into a mask of confusion. “Okay?”

“I just needed you to be clear on the above before I pointed out that you’re acting like a child, Anija, and it’s unbecoming.”

“Oh, fucking fine! Yes!” Hashirama runs a hand through his hair. “I’m stupid and childish, is that what you want to hear, Tobirama?”

“Not quite. It’s just that—you can’t just ignore this and hope it’ll go away."

“I know,” Hashirama groans, “that I promised to talk to him. It’s just that I don’t know what to say. Because every time I think about it, I’m lost and confused and _definitely_ not ready.” He gives Tobirama a pleading look. “I’ve made _wood clones_ of Madara and rehearsed our… ‘talk,’ and even _they_ wind up trying to kill me! It’s horrible! But I will, someday. I promise.”

Tobirama raises an eyebrow. “Wood clones?”

“It’s not funny, Tobi,” Hashirama chides, reaching for the bottle Tobirama’s put away only to get his hand slapped. “I’m just not… ready. All I need is time to gather my thoughts, and I don’t understand why Madara can’t just make an effort to act normal until it’s the right time to deal with this.”

Tobirama contemplates his brother, the deep frown, dejected pout and chakra lashing out wildly as he keeps his gaze on the window to avoid Tobirama’s eyes. There's a hint of that elusive darkness in his Anija's chakra too, and Tobirama chooses his next words carefully so as to not provoke him further.

“Don’t you think,” he asks, “that that's exactly what you and Madara have been doing for the past year? And that you’ve might have reached a breaking point?”

Hashirama's gaze flickers away guiltily.

“Maybe?”

"Anija, with all due respect, you blamed him for the very same thing you were doing," Tobirama says, "and offered a one-sentence apology."

"He was staying with you all week, dammit!"

"Only the evenings and the nightsー"

"And I couldn't very well talk to him during the dayー"

"ーand you could have easily carved out an hour after work to have at least a short conversation with him," Tobirama presses on. " Am I wrong?"

Impossibly, Hashirama pouts harder. Tobirama stares at him until he relents.

"Yes, Tobi," Hashirama grits out, "you're absolutely right. Tōka told me that too and punched me for good measure. I get it. I'll set a deadline if you want. I’ll sort everything out with Madara next week, all right?" He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at his forehead. “You don’t have to stay, Tobi. Go to your soulmate. He needs you.”

There’s a tension in Hashirama’s words that Tobirama doesn’t quite like.

“Madara can wait,” Tobirama says, “until I make sure my brother is doing all right.”

“He didn’t seem happy about you staying.”

“Well, you don’t exactly seem happy about me staying with him,” Tobirama points out, “even though you had every chance to ask me to stay over with you, if you needed."

"Well, I don't!” Hashirama's voice is bordering on shouting. “I don’t need you to babysit me during the night. I seriously overreacted that time, and the Mokuton’s gotten better, really.” He leans back against the wall and slides to the floor with his head hanging low. “Fuck. I’m sorry I’m a bad brother. I’m happy for you, I really, truly am, I’m just… also… scared.”

“Of what, Anija? Be honest.” Tobirama kneels down to sit beside him, feeling the full brunt of his wild, anxiety-ridden chakra. Hashirama mumbles something, voice barely audible behind the curtain of his hair as it obscures his face. “Come again?”

Hashirama lets out a heavy breath and finally lifts his head to look at him.

“Madara is going to become more important to you than I am,” he says with a wince.

Ah. So _that's_ where the extra tension is coming from.

"And maybe he already is," Hashirama whispers, almost too quiet to hear.

Tobirama can’t restrain a crude laugh at the irony.

“And it doesn’t ring a bell for you at all, Anija? The fact that I used to hate Mito for the exact same reason?” Tobirama reminds him. “I'd say that turned out fine.”

“Yes, but you and Mito are friends!”

“And you and Madara aren’t?”

“Well, what if we _don’t_ sort this out?” Hashirama asks, fists clenched and chakra vibrating with genuine fear. “What if we still remain at odds because—because so much has happened in these fourteen stupid years of the _stupid_ war and then you’ll have to choose between us but he’s your soulmate Tobi and you know what that means to him—”

Tobirama slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Anija. I understand. And if you trust me like you always claim you do, then please, believe me when I say, you _do not_ have to worry about that.” The hand drops to his shoulder, and Tobirama channels a bit of his chakra through the point of contact, hoping it will calm Hashirama despite the switch. “There’s nothing you can possibly do to alienate me. It upsets me when you forget that.”

Hashirama blinks at him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Tobirama assures him.

“Liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“What if I killed a kitten?” Hashirama says. “Or several kittens. What if I killed all the strays that you feed around the village, would you still call me brother then?”

The mock-dramatic tone makes it all the more funny, and despite himself, Tobirama laughs.

Gods.

What an idiot he has for a brother. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Animal cruelty aside,” Tobirama amends, “there’s nothing you can possibly to do to alienate me. Happy now?”

“Maybe a little.” Hashirama's smile is small, hesitant, so unlike his usual beaming grin, even as his chakra surges with joy in answer. “And Tobi—you do know the same goes for you, right?”

It's second nature for Tobirama to want to disagree. His mind takes him back the crippling loneliness he'd felt when Hashirama used to disappear for his playdates with Madara, then nearly daily dates with Mito, to the countless times he'd heard Hashirama talk about the future of a perfect, peaceful village that he would defend no matter the cost, no matter who would dare stand in his way.

_And what if I turn against your dream?_ he yearns to ask, simply for curiosity's sake, even though it is an impossibility. He instead offers a smile and a quiet reassurance.

"I know."

This earns him a hug, tight and protective, as Hashirama's chakra envelops him completely, with a nearly overwhelming force. "You never believe me. But I'm guessing that needs time as well, right?"

Of course, Hashirama is better than anyone at reading him.

He pulls away and looks at Tobirama, gaze thoughtful. "We've talked about me enough, Otouto, and I promise you, I'll fix everything. What I'd like to know isーhow is it, living with Madara?"

Tobirama grinds his teeth in annoyance.

"I wouldn't call it _living together,_ per se," he says, "and that's the first time you've asked me that all week. Why the sudden interest?"

"Okay, sleeping then," Hashirama says wryly, "and forgive me if I was _a bit_ shocked. I didn't know what to think! I didn't expect the first thing you'd do with your soulmate is move in together. At night, during the dayーI don't care, do you know how much time it took Mito and I to have one innocent sleepover with each other? And gods, do spare me any sexual details ifー"

"Anija!"

"What?"

"We're notー" Tobirama pinches the bridge of his nose. "Gods. You're impossible. You know the reason we're staying with each other at night. I am _not_ lying to you," he glowers at Hashirama's suspicious stare, "and it's... surprisingly nice. Domestic. He's even funnier to mess with than you are, actually."

"What?" Hashirama gasps, clutching a hand to his chest. "Now that's treachery."

Tobirama rolls his eyes.

"Almost as funny. Idiot." He wrinkles his nose. "He also insists on livening up my apartment because it's apparently too empty."

"Oh, like you never let me do?"

"I never thought I'd say this, but he's even worse with nagging than you are. I simply gave up."

"That's Madara for you," Hashirama says with a wistful smile that takes but a split second to shift into a threatening frown. "But he's not pressuring you into anything, is he?"

Tobirama shakes his head. "I swear to you. We haven't... we're not... we're just getting used to each other now, is all."

He shrugs, resisting the urge to squirm under Hashirama's expectant gaze. He's no sensor, but he has an inconvenient knack for noticing Tobirama's agitation.

"It's just so fucking confusing," Tobirama admits, "like you've known a person for so long from this one angle, and you have this one mode of communication with him, which is nothing close to pleasant, but then everything you know gets turned upside down, and you still _sort of_ fight, _sort of_ keep up that same attitude, but it's actually enjoyable now because you can't take offense," he's _aware_ that he's rambling but can't stop himself, "or at least, you actively try not to take offense. And you can't believe this person is actually nice beneath his utter stupidity and complete lack of social graces and self-restraint." His shoulders droop in defeat. "Am I even making sense?"

"You are," Hashirama says. "But Tobi, arguably _,_ you and Madara really have always been fighting... a lot, don't you think? Some might say, too much?"

Tobirama stares, uncomprehending. "Yes? That's my point."

"I mean," Hashirama strains, at a loss for words, "the fighting was really, _unnecessarily_ excessive, if you know what I mean."

"Well, of course," Tobirama says, frowning, "because we hate each other. Hated."

"Well, I don't know," Hashirama drawls, "Mito and I have been noticing this, uh, _thing_ between you guys whenever you're in the same room together. Okay, fine, Mito noticed and I caught on. You know, especially when you spend hours on end just bickering. Like it's your favorite pastime."

"Killing intent."

Hashirama snorts. "Um. Well. _No_. Not that, no. Rather a _different_ kind of... _tension_." He waggles his eyebrows.

"Aggressive tension?" Tobirama tries, absolutely lost at this point.

"Gods, yeah, sure, aggressive tension." There's that annoying, unbridled derision in Hashirama's eyes as he tries to speak in-between huffs of laughter. "You're right. It was _very_ aggressive."

"Sometimes I wish you had at least a modicum of eloquence," Tobirama laments, only for thin tendril to detach from the wooden desk and swat him on the forehead. "Or maturity."

"Little brothers are mean," Hashirama voices his eternal complaint.

"Maybe big brothers are just stupid," Tobirama taunts, actively jarring the Mokuton's renewed attacksーand Hashirama's.

The playful wrestling is a familiar distraction from their mutual worries, and Tobirama is relieved to feel Hashirama's chakra warm and content, still tinged with that ever-present darkness of the Mokuton's power, but the stale grayness of it is a bit duller now, controlled. It seems Hashirama was telling the truth about his acceptable well-being after all.

(Nevertheless, Tobirama itches to get back to his research on the Mokuton. The laughter does little to make him forget that his closest person is in constant distress because of his failure to find the most basic solution for it. The weight of this failure stretches since his childhood, and he can only hope finding a cure for the Sharingan isn't just as difficult.)

He tackles Hashirama to the ground in the end, knowing full well he's letting him win this fight; Tobirama had never been able to overpower him without underhanded tactics since Hashirama's accursed growth spurt in their teenage years.

"I win," he says anyway, and Hashirama laughs with him, as genuinely happy as Tobirama would like to see him every day.

"And I graciously accept my defeat," Hashirama says. "Now go on, Tobi. You need to rest after this hell of a week."

"You're sure you don't need me to stay?" Tobirama asks one last time.

"Nah, a couple friends and I are hitting the gambling house." Hashirama makes a face at Tobirama's glare. "What? I'm the Hokage, I do what I want."

"That's not actually how being a Hokage works."

"Would you like to take over?"

"Nope." Tobirama jumps up to his feet in an instant, suppressing a shiver at the idea. Assistant and deputy to Hokage is torture enough, as each day persistently reminds him. "That's your burden to bear."

Hashirama scrambles to his feet, muttering again about little brothers and their inherent rudeness.

The absolute child.

"So, listen," Hashirama says, glancing at Tobirama a bit timidly. "You're completely right about the situation with Madara. You know. I shouldn't put off dealing with it, because that will only lead to more misunderstandings."

"My, my. The _God_ of Shinobi who's literally faced down a bijū before has _finally_ rediscovered his courage?"

"Watch it."

"I am watching," Tobirama teases, "this very intriguing spectacle unfold. So, what have you decided?"

Hashirama gives him a playful shove as they make for the door.

"Come over for dinner tomorrow?" he suggests. "And do try not to forget this timeー"

"It was _one time_ , Anija," Tobirama says, rolling his eyes. Hashirama isn't going to let go of that for a long time, it seems. "Wait. You want Madara to come with?"

"Sure! I meanーyou guys never accepted my invitations for meals together," he complains. "And just think about it. If you had, you _could_ have found out you were bonded a lot sooner than the festival."

Tobirama huffs. Of course Hashirama would try to pull something like this.

* * *

  1. "Fine. On one condition." He jabs a finger to Hashirama's chest. "If you two try to rope me into being the middleman in _your_ conflict, I'm getting the fuck out and possibly setting your house on fire."
  2. ~~"Anija." He places a hand on Hashirama's shoulder. "I know it's difficult. But you should first talk to Madara on your own. It's better this way."~~



~~**Click** **[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScUdF8626bFjuepft97oEj74_QmeV9XuOrLt_rJtIgV767wpQ/viewform?usp=sf_link) ** **to vote**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun with this, as you can see x) A few notes:
> 
> Ahem, yeah, seals here are a mix of Taoist symbology (presumably the inspiration for the Eight Trigrams Seal, for one, and just the general look of most seals in Naruto) and physics, bc me = hopeless geek I’m so sorry asdfghjk
> 
> In Japan, _Higanbana_ (red spider lily) are widely associated with [death](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lycoris_radiata#Uses_and_legends) and often used at funerals. (Based my avid Internet travels so, grain of salt and all.) 
> 
> Madara's _siblings'_ names (because wait up Kishi, why does everyone in the founders era only have brothers lmao??) are taken from [this awesome post](https://sennokami.tumblr.com/post/182666501469/theory-about-madara-and-izunas-names) theorizing that Madara and Izuna's (and their brothers'/siblings') names were inspired by the Five Mountains of Northern Shinshu👀
> 
> P.S. Also, some silliness I forgot to post after the last chapter😶😅  
>  **Tōka:** h-  
>  **Izuna:** faxx😍😍😍
> 
>  **Tōka:** *flexes accidentally*  
>  **Izuna:** *self-combusts to conceal his nosebleed*  
>  **Tōka:** *flexes on purpose*  
>  **Izuna:** *sobbing* may the gods help me I AM IN LOVE please fuck me or kill me i don’t care it would be an honor to die by ur hand GODDESS


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this would have been posted earlier but i was met with the not-so-great news that i might prolly lose my amazing job and have lost half the day to panic :c i'll try not to let stupid rl affect my writing. Lolol job-hunting will prolly give me more free time anyway x)
> 
> now, i dunno if y'all reading the banter as much as i love writing it asdfghjk it distracts me SO MUCH it gets away from me and tells me plot should be eased not rushed into but i hope i’m not boring y’all by this meandering bullshit *whispers* pls tell me if i am >.> meow 
> 
> enjoy! :3
> 
> annnd comment replies updated [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing)

_"Fine. On one condition." He jabs a finger to Hashirama's chest. "If you two try to rope me into being the middleman in your conflict, I'm getting the fuck out and possibly setting your house on fire."_

Despite the threat, his Anija beams at him as if Tobirama has just promised him the world and assaults him with bone-crushing hug.

"Thank you," Hashirama's voice comes out soft in stark contrast to the blazing storm of glee that is his chakra, clashing against Tobirama's senses like a particularly harsh storm.

"Anija," Tobirama chokes, "if you don't want me to change my mind— _get off me._ "

"Come over tomorrow at seven then, Tobi.” Hashirama complies, still with the overjoyed smile plastered on his face. Arm wrapped around Tobirama’s shoulders, he goes on languidly towards the main entrance. "Hope you have fun with Madara tonight."

Tobirama narrows his eyes, picking up just the slightest hint of teasinge, but humors him nonetheless.

“I always do,” he says, “I mean—he’s into seal theory. Why did you never tell me Madara dabbles in seal theory?”

“Why, would that have made you like him?” _Definitely_ a hint of teasing in Hashirama’s tone now.

“ _No_ ,” Tobirama says, throwing off Hashirama’s and increasing his pace, “but I wouldn’t have thought of him as a completely hopeless idiot, at least.”

“Stop insult-complementing my best friend.”

“You don’t get to call him that until you work through your stupid fight.”

“Tobi!” Hashirama gasps. “That’s... that’s...”

“Mean, rude, unfair,” Tobirama recounts, “oh, and little brothers are evil. We’ve been through this before.”

“A thousand times and you _still_ haven’t learned proper manners.”

“Arguably, neither have you.”

Hashirama makes a face but chooses not to dispute with the truth. Tobirama only scoffs at the ensuing pout and silent treatment all the way until they reach the engawa and stop for their goodbyes.

“See you tomorrow, Anija.” Tobirama initiates the embrace this time, feeling the smile radiating in Hashirama’s chakra. “I’ll work on my manners if you work on being more mature.”

“It’s ironic you’re saying that to me, Otouto. I forget, are you even old enough to drink yet?”

The words earn him a considerably harder shove than before, as well as smack over the head to boot.

“Which further proves my point,” Hashirama says with a half-hearted glare, “but I heard you. Duly noted.” He smiles then and stretches out his hand. A perfectly polished wooden statuette manifests, about a palm high, of a chibi-sized Madara with a pissed off expression on his face, holding a sign saying ‘Not a completely hopeless idiot,’ which makes Tobirama bark out a laugh. “Good night, Tobi. I love you.”

“Thank you.” Tobirama cradles the gift in his hand. Madara’s reaction is going to be _priceless_. “Love you too.”

Satisfied with his brother’s well-being and with a much calmer state of mind, Tobirama leaps to the nearest roof to make his way back home.

He and Hashirama have long since made it a habit to never part without an “I love you” to each other, even after their most heated arguments. It was too painful, returning from a joint mission to discover that Kawarama had been killed during a mission of his own; too heartbreaking to hear of Itama’s death after Hashirama got upset with him for a reason that seemed so petty and insignificant in retrospect. With just the two of them left, they loathed to risk the same happening again and so gave fate no leeway to take one of their lives and leave regrets and words unsaid behind.

Overlooking Konoha now, a village where the Senju and Uchiha both, impossibly, found a common home, now alit with a joyful night out, civilian and shinobi out and about without the weight of a war weighing on anyone’s shoulders—Tobirama wonders if, with time, they be able to let go of those fears. If peace will remain strong and lasting, allowing both him and Hashirama to die of old age rather than in battle, as Tobirama always expected they would.

He closes his eyes as he lands on top of his apartment building, takes a deep breath before he slides down the wall and into his home through the balcony.

It’s a beautiful dream. One that he is willing to run himself dry trying to achieve.

“I’m home,” he calls, heading straight to the kitchen where he can see Madara bustling about.

As per usual.

“Another delicacy for dinner tonight?” Tobirama asks with fond exasperation. As much as he enjoys the different (and frankly delicious) meals each day, Madara’s occupation of the kitchen and rigid hold over Tobirama’s now healthy food intake make him feel a little uneasy. Maybe a little guilty. “You really don’t have to, Madara.”

“And settle for pickles and rice? No, thank you.” Madara watches something sizzle on the grill for a long few moments before he turns it off, turning around for a proper greeting. “Welcome hom—Senju, _get_ _off_ the fucking counter and sit at the table like a normal person, you tactless fool,” he seethes, staring Tobirama down until he relents. “And I made salmon ochazuke and inarizushi, nothing special.”

“So I can’t enjoy a regular plain meal but you’re allowed to eat inarizushi every day?”

“Not every day,” Madara protests, quickly wilting under Tobirama’s glare. “Every other day, maybe. And it’s in the taste, Tobirama, the nutrition. You’re hardly getting any of it with plain rice and pickles. I can bet you don’t so much enjoy it as you are a lazy cook.”

“And you are a mother hen,” Tobirama parries. “Who would have thought?”

“I’d like to make sure my soulmate doesn’t starve.”

“And maybe I’d like to help mine make dinner at least once in a while.”

Madara huffs. “No need.” He turns back to the counter and starts preparing the food. “Besides, you’re helping me decorate the walls, that’s help enough.”

“A completely unnecessary addition to a perfectly normal apartment,” Tobirama mutters just to be contrary, though he’d be the first one to admit how much more cozy his apartment has gotten, what with Madara’s obsessive nightly foray into painting his walls and rearranging (and adding to) his furniture.

Even now, walking over to his living room, he finds the space much more lively with some of the shoji adorned with landscapes painted by Madara’s (admittedly) talented hand; softer, more comfortable mats and a bigger chabudai that Madara had dragged here from his place; the quaint floor hearth Madara had a disgruntled Tokabuild with a Doton one night, because he liked warming himself beside it in the mornings, always getting up earlier than Tobirama and ending up too cold.

Tobirama channels chakra into his eyes for just a moment to take in the changes again, marveling at the sheer amount of _comfort_ they bring him, savoring the little hints all about of a presence here other than his own. He’s never lived with anyone since Hashirama moved from their shared room to live with Mito, and however strange it might be, it’s nice, if only for a little while before their chakras settle, to have a roommate.

_Maybe a future husband,_ the treacherous, ever-buzzing part of his brain supplies, the one that just _won’t_ shut up about the endless fucking possibilities. He frantically brushes the thought away, jumping as he realizes Madara has been speaking for a few moments already.

“You’re just afraid to admit I’m good at something.” Madara sets down their dishes with loud _clang,_ sitting across from him.

“The only things I’m afraid of are the consequences of your stupidity,” Tobirama snaps, still reeling from the stupid, senseless, _unreal_ thought of an non-existent future. “I only praise people when they deserve it. And for concrete results, at that.” Madara gives him a dirty look as as he pours tea into their rice. “Once we’re done with the decorating, I’ll be able to judge your vision properly.”

"Eat, Senju,” Madara glowers, “before I give in to the urge to punch you.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot,” Tobirama points out, “and you have yet to deliver.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Madara says sweetly, “I’ll be sure to give you a good beating tomorrow at training if you’re so eager.”

“Keep dreaming, Uchiha.” Despite himself, Tobirama feels a wave of embarrassment hit him—again—at his absolute failure to keep up with fire release practice, but if they decide to go with a taijutsu only spar, maybe he won’t make too much of a fool of himself. “I look forward to knocking you down a peg. Or several. By the way—I forgot to show you this.”

Taunting Madara is, perhaps, his favorite activity as of late, and it’s as satisfying as ever to watch him stare blankly at the statuette Tobirama retrieves from his pocket, then switch to a murderous glare coupled with ever so predictable spluttering.

“What the _fuck_ is this monstrosity?” Madara makes to grab it, but Tobirama snatches him away from his grip.

“A gift from Anija,” he says, shrugging as he doesn’t even try to curtail his grin.

“That fucking piece of shit. Did _you_ get him to make that?” Madara demands, lunging to Tobirama’s side of the table, still in pursuit of the offensive toy.

“I didn’t.” Tobirama shoves him off, only snickering at Madara growl. “But that is a quote of mine. Is it praise enough?”

“Fuck yourself!”

“Stop trying to maim me, Madara. And I think it’s cute.”

“ _I am not fucking cute!”_

“Maybe _you_ aren’t,” Tobirama taunts, albeit finding Madara’s shrieking and flailing strangely endearing, “but Anija’s depiction is adorable.”

Madara growls, low and dangerous, looking very much ready to punch him now. Tobirama swiftly slips the statuette into a storage scroll and stares at Madara with an innocent smile.

“If that ends up on the bedside table,” Madara snarls, “I will _destroy_ it. I _will_ drag Hikaku in here and make him burn it with the fucking Amaterasu if I have to.”

“And ruin my gift?” Tobirama attempts a hurt expression.

_“Fuck_ you,” is all Madara answers to that, shooting daggers at him. “Listen—I will let you cook dinner tomorrow if you incinerate that piece of crap right this instant.”

“Oh. About that.” Tobirama looks to the side. “No need for that, since I thought we could... eat someplace else.”

Madara blinks at him. “What do you mean someplace else,” he asks, “like—like a date?

“No!” Tobirama says a little too loudly. “Not a—not _that_ —I mean, we’ll go together but—no!”

Tobirama winces, cursing himself internally. So much for spluttering being Madara’s thing.

“Well, I figured,” Madara says, crossing his arms. Tobirama can swear his hair bristles just the slightest bit. “What, then?”

“We were invited,” Tobirama says firmly, willing his breath to stay level and the inexplicably elevated heartbeat to stop. What has him so shaken anyway? This doesn’t make sense. “For dinner. To Anija’s.”

Somehow, Madara manages to look even more disgusted than he was at the statuette.

“And you accepted?” Madara fixes him with a look of such intense contempt Tobirama half-expects the red of the Sharingan to bloom in his eyes before reality sets in. “Let me spell it out for you, genius Senju. Your fucking moron of a brother is afraid to talk to me one-on-one like he fucking _should_ and wants you to act as a go-between when I inevitably try to murder him.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “Stop being dramatic. I’m not stupid. I got a promise from him that he won’t do that.”

As evidenced by his deepening scowls, Madara doesn’t find that very convincing.

“Look,” Tobirama says, “he’s trying. He really, truly is, and he’s worried about confronting you which is why he’s been putting it off.”

“Are you defending him?”

“I’m on nobody’s side here, Madara. I’m just saying that this is him finally reaching out to talk. So—please,” Tobirama implores, “give him a chance? It’s just the one dinner.”

“Ugh. How _delightful_ ,” Madara deadpans. “I’m losing my appetite just thinking about it.”

Tobirama sighs. “Eat first, talk Anija later?”

"Preferably never.” Madara scrambles to his side of the table nonetheless, muttering a quick, “Itadakimasu.”

“Itadakimasu,” Tobirama echoes, giving Madara a brief smile which he completely ignores.

Oh, well. Small steps at a time.

Dinner is a quiet affair, as always, with words exchanged only about the quality of the food, which Tobirama does compliment, because it takes talent to make such a simple meal taste quite so delectable. _That_ chases away the scowl on Madara’s face to give way to hesitant smiles, which are—again, strangely endearing, but Tobirama shoos the thoughts away before they stray into dangerous and unfamiliar territory.

If this soulmate part doesn’t work out, Tobirama thinks he’d still want to keep Madara as a friend if just for his cooking. And he’d would never say it to her face of course since he’s far from suicidal, but even Mito’s cooking doesn’t compare.

He does tell Madara this, though, after extorting an oath of silence, and Madara positively preens, the irritation from before seemingly forgotten. Madara all but drags him into the kitchen to taste the inarizushi—Tobirama wouldn’t be surprised if he can literally make them with his eyes closed at this point—and Tobirama can’t help the fond smile as Madara tries (and fails) to curb his twitchy excitement as he waits for Tobirama to brew his tea of choice for the night.

However...

“So,” Tobirama says slowly, “about Anija.”

He turns to see Madara burying his face in his hands, letting out an excessively dramatic groan.

“This isn’t even your concern,” Madara says, “I hate that he’s roping you into this.”

“It kind of is,” Tobirama passes him the teapot and the plate with the inarizushi, “he’s my brother. You’re my soulmate. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t at odds with each other.”

“I’d appreciate it if he wasn’t an ass.”

“I told you,” Tobirama says, “he’s working on it.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Madara curls his lips in disgust as he stalks out of the kitchen, chakra radiating pent-up annoyance with a renewed vigor. “I’ll go. We’ll see what becomes of it. Can we talk about inarizushi now? Or literally anything else?”

Tobirama pinches the bridge of his nose. His gut feeling tells him tomorrow will end in disaster, but he chances to remain hopeful.

* * *

  1. ~~"Anija can and will be difficult," he says, eyeing his liquor cabinet wistfully before following Madara. There’s a vague, hazy memory he thinks might have even been a dream, that reminds him of some sort of side-effect of inebriation if a soulbond is settling in. "He's a bit of a mess now, but I'm sure you two will work it out."~~
  2. "Anija can and will be difficult," he says, reaching for the liquor cabinet before he follows Madara. Tea doesn’t seem sufficient after the nightmare of a day; just a bit of his brother's moonshine before sleep would do him good. "He's a bit of a mess now, but I'm sure you two will work it out."  
Tobirama takes a sip of Hashirama’s latest creation, savoring the peach-like sweetness, the slight burn.  
“Would you like a taste?” He offers the bottle to Madara.



~~**Click[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfMqhjJABiHTMRscaXGIMnmpVnrmL9KjHU7InH9zu4DwZ0irQ/viewform?usp=sf_link) to vote** ~~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay first things first WTFWTFWTWF ALERT I GOT FANART???? I?????? CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IT CAUSE I CAN'T AND IT'S ALL KINDS OF PERFECT AND UNEXPECTED AND AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA LOOK!!!!!!!  
>   
> drawn by the wonderful, kind and amazing Ama aka [akayauchiha on tumblr](https://akayauchiha.tumblr.com/post/619003483324121088/finally-managed-to-draw-a-scene-out-of) and I HIGHLY recommend checking out her blog cause all of her art is just *CHEF'S KISS* *continues to cry tears of unbridled joy* THANK YOU SO SO MUCH AGAIN AMA💕💕💕
> 
> second, **!! NSFW scene !!** in this chapter from the words "It’s impossible to resist at this point" up till the POV switch to Madara (and the beginning of that is pretty M-rated), if you'd like to skip it :3 (sdfgfdsasd sorry in advance i can't contain my thot rip)
> 
> and third, THEY LET ME KEEP MY JOB FOR THE SUMMER MOTHERFUCKER I CAN STOP AGONIZING OVER BILLS FOR AT LEAST A LITTLE WHILE YAYYYYY :D Part of the delay was because of all that anxiety but at least it's over for now. And without further ado... hope you enjoy another long read>.> the next two chapters will be shorter ehehehe
> 
> comment replies updated [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/121r1cuxE8j8I8whUqQN2RDJZnLykiZYC1CU4JAz9XtA/edit?usp=sharing) and i'm just. so so exhausted right now, it's the middle of the night, but will get to all the fic replied first thing in the morning :3 Thank you so, so much guys💕💕💕

_"Anija can and will be difficult," he says, reaching for the liquor cabinet before he follows Madara. Tea doesn’t seem sufficient after the nightmare of a day; a glass of his brother's moonshine before sleep would do him good. "He's a bit of a mess now, but I'm sure you two will work it out."_

_Tobirama takes a sip of the peach-like taste of Hashirama’s latest creation, savoring the slight burn, the sweet aftertaste._

_“Would you like a taste?” He offers the bottle to Madara._

“Of wha—“

Madara's eyes widen as he looks towards him, his expression morphing into one of abject horror.

“Tobirama,” he asks slowly, voice apprehensive, “what, exactly, is that?”

“Anija’s moonshine?” Tobirama frowns at the strange reaction. “Why?”

Madara takes a long, deep breath, carefully putting down the inarizushi piece as it threatens to fall from his wavering grip, then takes another shaky breath before asking,

“Did you... drink it already?”

Tobirama frowns harder. “Yes?”

“FUCK!” Madara springs to his feet, knocking the offending bottle away and grabbing Tobirama by the shoulders. “Listen. Okay, um. Okay, _fuck_ , of course you swallowed it already, that’s a stupid fucking question but, look, would you maybe possibly like to develop some—some seal or other that exponentially... um, speeds up your metabolism?”

Tobirama stares.

“What?”

“You know, something that makes you pee faster or something?” Madara says frantically.

"Madara,” Tobirama growls, shaking off his hands, "I have no patience for your inanities. What the hell is so wrong with a sip of alcohol?”

“Just a sip.” Madara heaves a sigh of relief, then peers closer still into Tobirama’s eyes, presumably looking for signs of inebriation. “And you feel fine?”

“Yes.” Tobirama can feel a vein twitching in his temple. This man... “Care to explain, Uchiha, why I shouldn’t?”

“I’m sorry, okay!” Madara explodes, throwing his hands up in frustration as he starts pacing in his usual, frantic manner that Tobirama has gotten far too sick of in the chaos of the past week. “I should have told you but I didn’t, and that’s on meーbut I thought you knew!”

“Knew what?”

“But of course you didn’t!” Madara is tugging at his hair now. A sign of an impending hissy fit that Tobirama can usually only curtail with physical violence. “It’s justーyou were all interested in the legends and the symbolism, you know, but.” He proceeds to hit himself, rhythmically, in the forehead. “ _Ugh._ I’m such a fucking _idiot!”_

“I’m counting to five,” Tobirama says, nails digging into his palms, “before I lose my patience and punch you in the face, Uchiha.”

“The alcohol,” Madara starts, cringing as if in pain, “at the early stage of a bond it... um...”

“Will I die?” Tobirama demands.

“No! No, not that,” Madara says in a rush, stopping short in his pacing. “Of course not. No.”

“Then. _What?_ ”

Madara squeezes his eyes shut, whole body tensing as if he’s seriously resigned himself to an attack.

“It acts as.” He swallows. “As, uh. An aphrodisiac.”

A few moments of silence linger in the ear, all shades of heavy, awkward and uncomfortable.

As the words sink in, Tobirama can’t help it.

He laughs.

“Right.” Tobirama sits down on the couch, letting his own tension seep away as he shakes his head at the stupidity fate has equipped his soulmate with. “Sit down and eat, Madara. I find the insinuation that I can’t handle a simple boner offensive.”

“A simpleーwhaー” Madara stutters. “ _Don’t say things like that!_ ”

“Why? Aren’t we both adults?” Tobirama asks. “Madara, just because I’ve never had sex before doesn’t mean I’m clueless.”

“You’ve _never_...” Madara stops short. “Wait, how old are you again?”

“I think you’ve completely missed the point of my previous sentence,” Tobirama taunts. It only gets progressively funnier, how Madara gets riled up by every mention of intimacy, even though _he_ was the one spouting nonsense about stable sex lives when this whole mess began. Tobirama wonders what could have changed. “I reiterate that I am well aware of which factors contribute to an erectionー”

He gets cut off when Madara ambushes him in a flurry of flailing arms and aggressive shushing sounds, trying to slap his hand over Tobirama’s mouth.

“ーas well as,” Tobirama plows on, dodging Madara’s assaults, “where said erection needs to goー”

“Shut your godsdamned mouth, Senju!” Madara finally manages to wrest Tobirama into compliance, palm firmly keeping his mouth shut and arm pinning him against the couch. “One more fucking word from you and I’ll kick you out of the house.”

Tobirama tugs Madara’s hand off his mouth. “You do remember that your questionable renovation efforts don’t actually make this your apartment?”

Madara’s hair bristles, decidedly cat-like, as he fixes Tobirama with another one of those glares that would possibly be deadly, had he the Sharingan still. Even so, Madara’s lips quirk up as he poorly attempts to hold back his amusement.

“ _Fuck yourself,_ Senju,” he hissesーand isn’t that the best opening.

(Izuna had insisted on quite a few occasions that the only right answer to such an insult was “Fuck me yourself, you coward.” Given the circumstances, Tobirama goes with a better idea.)

“And _that_ is what dildos are for,” he says, contemplative, prompting what seems to be a rehearsal of the sparring session they’ve planned for tomorrow.

Ridiculous. Absolutely unnecessary. But oh so _fun_ , which is something Tobirama only now realizes he’s been sorely missing, the suffocating iron clutches of war not quite releasing him from the burdens of the past in these peaceful times. Now that he trades playful insults and gets tangled in a fist-fight with someone he was so sure he’d never be able to make peace with, he lets himself laugh and relish the moment of levity.

Or, well, quite a few moments. They keep at it well until the food and tea grow far too cold for their liking and so move on to sit beside the floor hearth to reheat them, which doesn’t make the former any less delicious.

It is just a tad more difficult to savor the taste, what with the alcohol’s effect actually manifesting and Tobirama’s breeches growing far too tight and his eyes lingering unusually long on Madara’s lips whenever he wets them with his tongue.

_Fuck._

“Why do you love inarizushi so much?” Tobirama asks to distract himself. Madara is just munching on his sixth piece, looking all the part of a child gobbling down his favorite treat. Which isn’t far from the truth, really.

Madara shrugs. “Mother used to make it for us all the time.” He frowns. “She died when I was five and... I never really learned how to cook from her, because of the constant training. So I taught myself later, to cook for my siblings. And inarizushi is something I’ve never managed to top.”

Tobirama allows himself a small smile. So much of what Madara had so far shared about his childhood reveals much about the care he had for his brothers and sisters, and it’s hard to miss how fretful he is about Izuna now. It’s something that Tobirama can greatly sympathize with.

“What’s your favorite food?” Madara asks. “No, wait, let me guessーthe tears of your enemies?”

Tobirama considers spilling his left over tea on the idiot, but supposes Madara might just divert the attack, especially is he _has_ gotten better with his chakra control. Better not find out now.

“Fried fish,” he says, glaring.

“And that’s it?” Madara tilts his head to the side. “Just that? Fried fish?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe a special type? Fried in tempura? Western-style?”

“None of the above,” Tobirama insists, “just simple fried fish. Any fish. What’s so shocking about it?”

“Well.” Madara sighs. “Your tastes in food are as bland as your interior decoration choices.”

“Oh, gods, will you _ever_ shut up?” Tobirama groans. “What, you’d prefer my place to be like Anija’s? With flowers and trees and stupid glittering decor all over?”

Madara gives a full body shudder remembering the jumbled mesh of building and forest that is Hashirama’s house, being much the frequent guest there himself. At least this bullshit argument between them, Tobirama supposes.

“Point taken,” Madara says grimly. “Took me two whole months to stop stumbling on the fucking vines everywhere.”

“Exactly.”

They slide into easy conversation intertwined with bickering, just like they do every evening, and once again they find themselves lingering by the fire until well after midnight, side-tracked by possible new matrix derivations for the instant messaging seal, Madara’s proposal now well out of the realm of thought experiments and a full-fledged hypothesis Tobirama can’t wait to test. This despite their resolve to get up early for training tomorrowーnot that Tobirama minds, of course, and annoyingly, it’s Madara who points it out first.

“Come on, Tobirama, you’re exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”

“I’m _not_ tired,” Tobirama protests, rubbing a hand over his eyes. If anything, he seems strangely alert after this hell of a day and a nightmare of a week. “Let’s finish up setting the last piece of matrix, then go?”

“Your eyes are bloodshot,” Madara says with a pointed stare, “and you keep slurring your words.”

“I’m fine! It’s just your chakra running too hot again.” Far, far hotter than usual, which Tobirama writes off as extra heat from the hearth and the remnants of the alcohol coursing through his system. Or, perhaps, a fever. Not that Madara can know. “Let’s just move to the bedroom.”

“Yes. To sleep.”

“After we finish one minor little thing that will literally take five minutes.”

“And that _can wait_ until tomorrow.” Madara grabs the sheet of paper with the matrix right out of his hands, and Tobirama would have held on if not for the absolutely scorching heat radiating from Madara’s fingers as they grazed his skin.

Strange.

Madara is supposed to feel cooler to him now.

And his touch is _definitely_ not supposed to evoke sudden bouts of dizziness that make the whole room spin.

Eyes closed. Deep breath. Keep calm. Eyes open.

Tobirama stares at his hand, feels the shocking burning sensation wash over his whole body once more, much like a spasm but nowhere painfulーjust viscerally _there_ , prickling through skin and veins.

“Wait, I...”

He looks up only to realize that Madara has already left with to put the dishes away in the kitchen, and to his horror, Tobirama’s vision grows even foggier than usual as he watches Madaraーor his silhouette at this pointーmove around. He’s saying something too, but his voice seems distant, like a far-off rumbling thunder, only the echoes reaching Tobirama’s ears.

He imagines for a fleeting, maddening moment, what Madara’s voice sounds like when he moans.

_Fuck._

Tobirama jumps to his feet, hands visibly trembling as he forcefully shakes his head in hopes it will drive away the crazy train of thought. The mounting heat does little to help, only making his throat run dry as he blinks through the haze, mentally running through all the possible causes for such an abrupt onset of symptoms.

A virus. Poison. Heat stroke from Madara’s chakra, hopefully.

_Hopefully,_ it isn’t the effect of the alcohol setting in. It can’t be...

“Can’t be, right?” Tobirama belatedly realizes he’s speaking out loud or whispering, rather, through the raspiness in his throat. He shakes his head again as he slowly stumbles towards the kitchen, gaze focused on Madara’s blurry form. “Madara, IーI’m not feeling goodー”

Madara is in front of him in an instant.

“What, why? What’s wrong?”

Burning hands latch onto Tobirama’s shoulders, a much needed support to keep him steady but not at all a relief amid the nigh-unbearable fever, and Tobirama is suddenly treated to a much clearer view of Madara’s face.

He’s fairly sure his heart has skipped a beat. Or several.

Unprompted, his Sharingan springs forth to sharpen his vision, though Tobirama can only really focus on the dark waterfall of Madara’s hair, the locks falling to obscure half of his face, contrasting with the starkly pale skin and leaving visible only one of his eyes, dark-blue, almost black and dangerously entrancing.

“What’s wrong?” Madara gives him a rough shake by the shoulders. Tobirama’s gaze falls to Madara’s lips, full and red, practically inviting Tobirama to trace them with his fingers. “Why did you activate the Sharingan? Talk to me, godsdammit!”

“I don’t...”

Another wave of crippling heat makes Tobirama go weak in the knees, and he remains standing only thanks to Madara holding him upright.

“Tobirama!”

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” Tobirama says in a shaky voice, because it seems imperative that Madara know this.

“ _What?_ ”

“I justー” Tobirama follows every quirk and quiver of Madara’s lips as he stutters through something incomprehensible, much like Tobirama’s entire current thought process, if it can even be called that. “I needーcan you?”

“Can I what?” Madara shouts, making a shiver run through Tobirama at the roughness of his voice.

“Kiss me?”

“Have you _lost your fucking mind_ , Tobirama?”

To be fair, Tobirama doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he has to do something, lest the heat overtake him whole, and so him leaning into Madara’s armsーfor an embrace, a kiss, _some_ thing, _anything_ ーseems to be the only rational thing for him to do.

There’s a perfect moment, a searing point of connection as their lips end up just shy of touching, that is, before Madara ruins everything by harshly turning him around, trapping his wrists in a steel-tight grip and pinning Tobirama face-first against the wall.

Tobirama chokes out a moan, the hot press of Madara’s chest against his back too much and too little at the same time _andーah_. It seems his hard-on had went away only to come back full fucking force, bordering right there on the edge of pain.

“Godsdammit,” Madara hisses, “I knew this would happen.”

“Please, Madara...” Tobirama can barely manage a single thought save for the vivid image of Madara atop him, naked and just as wanting, kissing Tobirama and running his hands over his body, his chest, his—

“I don’tーstop _rubbing against me_ ーTobirama, stop!”

It feels viscerally good, the friction. Why would Madara want this to cease?

“IーMadara, please,” Tobirama repeats, his mind only vaguely registering that no matter how natural it feels, to want Madara, to need him in such a desperate way, there’s something strange with what’s happening.

Something wrong.

It’s with tremendous effort that he forces himself to relax against Madara’s grip and go still.

“Madara,” he breathes, “I really need you right now.”

A shaky sigh. “You don’t.”

And then world is rendered a fuzzy, messy, constantly moving blur as Madara practically drags Tobirama out of the living room and towards the bedroom. Tobirama is overjoyed at first, because bedroom means bed, and bed means much-needed _sex_ , but all Madara does is immobilize him again, half- _straddling_ him this time and pinning his wrists in a way that has Tobirama _craving_ more even as Madara restricts his every godsdamned move.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Another wave of dizziness washes over him, his skin feels like smouldering fire, and with Madara’s thigh lightly grazing his cock it’s all Tobirama can do to hold back a sob.

“Tobirama.” Madara’s gaze is like fire, in and of itself, and Tobirama’s breath hitches as he is, once again, transfixed by it. “Can you listen to me?”

“Yeah, justー _please_ ーjust touch me while you talk.”

Madara gives him a strange look. “You don’t want that.”

“I do!” Another attempt at wriggling from Madara’s grip fails, the minute friction only triggering another spasm of arousal that drains the strength from Tobirama’s body, replacing it with crude desperation. “Fuck!”

“Listen,” Madara says, his hands squeezing tighter round Tobirama’s wrists, “this is just you reacting to the alcohol. I need you to try and focus, all right? There’s no counter jutsu to thisー”

“Fucking _why?_ ” Tobirama can’t fathom dealing with this when every fucking cell in his body is screaming for Madara holding him closer, touching him, _inside_ him.

“Oh, _I_ don’t know, maybe you’ll be the first one smart enough to develop one,” Madara scoffs. “Chakra doesn’t mesh well with... this state. But there are ways to fix it.”

“Like you. Touching. _Me.”_

“ _No._ ” Madara glares, canting his hips away as Tobirama thrusts up on instinct. “I wouldn’tーnot like this. You’re basically plastered and have no agency, you fucking idiot!”

“Is that your only objection?” If it is, Tobirama thinks he might well win this one.

“No!” Madara shrieks, and even though he can’t flail as per usual, given their positions, his eyes jitter widely as he stutters through incomprehensible syllables, finally settling on, “It should be enough!”

“I won’t regret it if you’re worried about that,” Tobirama tries, just a touch shy of pleading once more, the tangible thought he would have normally put into this thoroughly suppressed by the all-consuming heat, “it’s just sex, it’s nothing special.”

“Shut. _Up._ ” Madara shuts his eyes for a moment, a pained expression twisting his face. “I won’t do that, Tobirama, and you certainly wouldn’t thank me if I did.” All Tobirama can do is fight to hold back a whine of disappointment. It’s just a touch shy of unbearable, being trapped under Madara like this yet unable to get what he wants. What he _needs_ , desperately. “Sedating you wouldn’t do any good. I’d have to scour the medical assets which _you_ centralized and buried under bureaucratic hell, by the way, to even get my hands on a drug strong enough to suppress this, and it’ll have you out for days.”

Tobirama shakes his head. “No,” he says through ragged breaths, “no, we have training andーand the paperwork is necessary so people don’t abuse the drugs, idiot.”

“Watch it, Senju, or I won’t help you.” Madara scowls. Tobirama curses his state for making him find even that unbearably attractive.

“So you _are_ willing to help.”

Madara's expression looks pained, conflicted. _Beautiful,_ Tobirama’s haze-addled mind supplies, _kissable_ is the adamant thought that plagues him as Madara bites his lip in the most _unhelpful_ way possible, struggling to decide what to say.

“Not in the way you think,” Madara mutters. “Tobirama, you said you’ve never been with anyone, but have you ever,” Madara trails off, sighs in frustration and shushes Tobirama gently as another wave of heat knocks the breath out of him. “Have you ever, um. Touched yourself?”

Madara visibly flinches at his words, and Tobirama has to fight the urge to surge his chakra in an imitation of a punch.

“Yes,” he growls, “obviously.”

“Oh, okay, right,” Madara says in a rush, wincing again and shifting his gaze upward as if in prayer. “That is... Look, it’s just like any otherーwhat I need you to do isーI mean what you _can_ do and what can help is just...” Eyes closed, jaw tight and face red with a particularly aggressive blush, he shouts, “ _Just jerk off until it feels better!_ ”

There’s a split moment where Tobirama acutely realizes that he’s going to be stuck with this precise memory of Madara saying that for the rest of his godforsaken life. Then the next moment when the words actually register.

“What?”

“What I said, godsdammit,” Madara stammers out. “Is it hard to fucking understand?”

Tobirama didn’t think it possible, but Madara’s blush has gotten even deeper. And of course his thoughts would stray to wondering how far is extends down his neck, lamentably covered by his accursed high collar, if it reaches his chest andー

“Tobirama, my eyes are up here.”

With a shake of his head, Tobirama refocuses on the face before him, and to be fair, Madara does make an effort to meet his gaze, even through his tangible discomfort.

“All right,” Tobirama says slowly, struggling to keep his voice level, “and for how long, exactly, am I supposed to masturbate?”

Another full-body wince. “Until it feels better?” Madara says timidly.

Tobirama glares. “Not exactly helpful.”

“Well, I don’t know, dammit!” Madara squirms as he seemingly resists another urge to flail, and Tobirama fights to suppress yet another moan at the movement. “Maybe a few times. Maybe a couple. It was just a sip after all.”

"Still not helping.”

“Fuck. Fine. I’m leaving.” Madara stills. “But I’ll be near ifーifーI don’t know, just. Call me when you’re done.”

“For once, Uchiha, shut the fuck up and stop subjecting me to your ineloquence,” Tobirama says, though the words sound less biting, what with him being out of breath.

“For once,” Madara glowers, “I’m saying it literally: feel free to fuck yourself, Senju.”

With that, the half-bliss, half-pain of the weight of Madara’s body on top of him disappears, and he gets to the door and out of the room in an instant, leaving Tobirama drowning and all but suffocating in the heat that only intensifies when there’s no one to press himself against.

_Fuck_ , Tobirama thinks. _I’m fucked._

It’s impossible to resist at this point, the compulsion to reach into his breeches and touch himself, relieving at least some of the tension. Unfastening his pants entirely frees his movements just enough to stroke himself as fast, as rough as he’d like to, moans slipping from his lips even as he slaps a hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet.

He doesn’t remember if he put up silencing seals around his roomーor his apartmentーand if he didn’t then... gods. That’ll be one hell of an embarrassment.

Though the gravity of that pales against the images flooding Tobirama’s mind: of Madara’s hands stroking him instead, Madara’s fingers playing with his balls, with the head of his cock, gathering the precome there and spreading it around his shaft. He imagines Madara biting at his ear, his deep, rumbling voice dragging out the syllables of Tobirama’s name, urging him to completion. Tobirama lets out a whine that’s more akin to a sob, really, pleasure and embarrassment warring within him as he thinks back to the one time he’d indulged his fantasies and brought himself off to the very same, _damnable_ Uchiha and how sinfully good that had felt, how he’d tried to forget that ever even happened and nowーhere he is. Tobirama quickens his pace as pleasure swells in the pit of his stomach too soon, far too overwhelming for him to make it last, and all he can hear is the rush in his ears, his own moans and gasps as he comes with Madara’s name on his lips.

Every muscle in his body tenses as he shudders through his orgasm, and by the end of it, Tobirama is left completely spent, gasping for breath and yet _still_ painfully hard and wanting.

Tobirama curses again, keeps stroking himself, the pleasant tingling in his groin escalating back to mind-numbing pleasure in a matter of moments.

What a fucking disaster.

It doesn’t help, too, how he once more becomes conscious of his surroundings appearing crystal clear and intricately detailed. Attempts to turn his Sharingan off are about as effective as stilling the hand on his cock, and now that he’s acutely aware of it, countless memories, vivid and maddening, spring to the forefront of his mind, assaulting him with every little detail of Madara’s appearance he’s memorized with these accursed eyes.

The way Madara’s lips curve into a lopsided smirk when he’s satisfied, the way they quiver and jut out or twist into a sneer if he’s angry or annoyed.

What Tobirama wouldn’t give now to have that mouth wrap around his cock.

“Madara...”

Then there’s way his anger and annoyance manifest in narrowed eyes and a deep frown that seems to darken the permanent eye bags under his eyes, and the sheer image of his glare is enough to steal Tobirama’s breath away. He remembers the look, the feel of his hair, always messy but with some sort of order to the tangled chaos, and unexpectedly soft and pleasant to the touch.

“Please...”

Unexpectedly soft—just like his skin, the hands Tobirama can’t stop thinking about, echoes of long fingers grazing over his arms, sometimes his back, what with Madara much more open to casual touches than before. Tobirama curses himself now, for being reticent to those, having to contend with so few memories now when he so yearns for Madara’s body, Madara’s kisses, his hands, tongue, cock _inside_ him and—

He loses himself again, wreaked by pulse after pulse of come, Madara’s name a prayer on his lips as he writhes in the sheets, desperate for release that will set him free from the perpetual heat.

But of course, this time doesn’t do it either.

His cock still hard, slick and straining, his thoughts still addled with semi-hallucinations—Tobirama really wouldn’t mind being a proper genjutsu at this point, if that would give him what he wants, needs.

“Madara,” he begs again, throat dry and voice low, hoping to the gods a silencing seal stands between them and at the same time willing Madara to come back and fuck him into oblivion. “Fuck,” Tobirama groans, hand back to working his cock _again,_ impossibly, though he should be thankful it isn’t actively painful, at least.

Though it _is_ going to be an agonizing wait through what’s looking to be a very long night.

**MADARA**

Madara never would have guessed that _this_ is how he would die.

Not in battle, not of disease, not as a result of one of Izuna’s pranks gone wrong, no. Rather, tormented into an excruciating death by the downright _obscene sounds_ of his soulmate bringing himself off time after time after time again.

And now once more, a drawn-out moan of Madara’s name escaping his lips, muffled by the door between them but nowhere near fully.

“Fuck, fuck me, Madara, _please_ ,” Tobirama groans next, and at this point, Madara has long since accepted his swift descent into insanity.

And can’t truly resist it, either.

Because of course, Madara realizes he’s making it harder for himself (quite literally), sitting on the floor with his back to the only piece of wood separating them, but as much as he is suffering, he can’t bring himself to leave. Much as he can’t go against his principles and take advantage of his soulmate, there’s the dark, ugly, primal part of him that he can’t quite ignore, a quiet whisper ofー

_Why not, if he wants it? If it helps him get through this faster?_

Madara shakes his head roughly, shooing away such thoughts.

Another keen resounds through the walls. There’s the sound of sheets rustling, of ragged breathing and the wet, rhythmic sound of skin moving against skin. Tobirama calls for him again amid incoherent begging, and Madara buries his face against his knees, letting out a silent scream.

_Gods help me._

Madara has lost count of how many times he’s heard Tobirama moan through his release. He has no idea how much time has passed, only that it’s far too long for him to be able to hold on to a sense of reality. It was worse, admittedly, when he had to restrain Tobirama, the proximity a maddening temptation since he didn’t have Tobirama’s seal on and his amplified sensing let him feel every pang of need and arousal coursing through Tobirama’s chakra, resonating with Madara’s own. It took all of his willpower the few moments right after he’d rushed out of the room to slap the seal onto his forearm and cut himself off from the constant stream of desire.

But the _sounds_. The godsdamned _begging_. The carefully suppressed memories coming to the forefront of Madara’s mind, of the few times he’d indulged in fantasizing about Tobirama behind closed doors and tightly-drawn curtains under the guise of harmless escapism.

There’s no escape now that all his fantasies play out practically right next to him.

“Madara, _please...”_

Madara’s sigh resembles a choked up moan as he grinds his nails into his palms until it hurts, battling the urge to palm himself through too-tight breeches.

_No, you piece of shit,_ he chides himself, _no fucking way._

The notion of jerking off to the image of his soulmate now feels like a betrayal.

Madara _desperately_ needs a distraction.

His Sharingan would be convenient right about now, so as to better recall the many horrors it had recorded throughout his life. Battle. Death. Fighting. Wounds festering with infection. Screams of pain and anguish and despair instead ofー

Deep groans melting into sweet whimpers and a stuttered mantra of Madara’s name which devolve into... silence.

Madara spends a full minute without hearing even the slightest hint of sound from Tobirama’s room before he fully processes the fact.

His eyes fly open.

“Tobirama?” he calls, tentative.

There’s no reply.

“Tobirama.” Madara stands, hands hovering over the door frame, itching to slide it open. “Are you all right? You didn’t pass out, did you? Can you hear me? I know you should be able to hear me, there’s so no fucking silencing seal here.”

At that comes the barest sound of a scuffle and muffled cursing.

“Tobirama!”

“I’m fine,” Tobirama voice comes out weak and raspy, “I’m fine, Madara. Just leave.”

The arousal in the pit of his stomach is quickly washed away by worry, and Madara barges into the room without a second thought, taking care to avoid tripping amid the usual mess as he scrambles towards the bed.

Tobirama looks... relieved, at least, lying boneless and exhausted in the mess of rumbled sheets, breathing uneven as his whole body trembles slightly. His clothes are strewn over the floor, and Madara purposefully keeps his eyes away from Tobirama’s groin, though his mind doesn’t need the Sharingan, apparently, to sear the image of Tobirama’s naked form in memory.

By the gods, he’s hopeless.

“Please leave,” Tobirama mutters again, curling onto his side to face away.

“Keep dreaming,” Madara huffs, sitting down and placing his hands over Tobirama’s sweat-slick shoulders, eliciting a stronger shudder as cold palms meet overheated skin. “Feel better?”

“Uh-huh,” Tobirama breathes, inching closer to Madara’s touch. “I still want you to leave. I’m all covered in come.”

Madara rolls his eyes. “Oh really? Wasn’t expecting that development.”

“Fuck off.”

“I said _no._ I’m trying toー” Madara gives a few half-hearted attempts to transform his chakra into water, but with just the little increments of practice he’d managed to squeeze in between his workload during the week, it quickly proves to be a futile task without a water source. Obviously. “ _Ugh._ Wait.”

Heart still racing in the aftermath of far too long a torture and his closeness to a _naked_ , very much _fucked out_ Tobirama, as his brain insists on reminding him, Madara races to the kitchen and back for a jug of water and a wet rag which he really should have thought about sooner. Tobirama latches onto the water like a man stuck parched in the Suna deserts and empties it in a matter of seconds. Madara curses the gods again for good measure; as if he needed yet _more_ distracting visuals.

“May I?” Madara asks as he finishes cleaning Tobirama’s chest and stomach, hand now hovering over his crotch.

The stare Tobirama gives him couldn’t be more exhausted. “You’re not leaving, are you.”

“You’re finally getting it.”

Tobirama grimaces. “Don’t exactly have the energy to do it myself.”

“Don’t be so embarrassed,” Madara tries to comfort him, completely unaffected by the answering glare. “I’m fairly sure Hashirama has been through more traumatizing things, no? Remember how he fell for Izuna’s bullshit and deep-conditioned his hair with syrup before meeting with the Daimyo?”

That, at least, triggers a reluctant smile. “I guess that was worse.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Madara makes an effort to keep his gaze on Tobirama’s face as he cleans his thighs and crotch, careful not to graze his oversensitive cock too much. Gods. Yet another surreal experience that makes the one week since they’ve discovered their bond seems more eventful than the whole of the past year.

He focuses his attention instead on Tobirama’s disheveled, sweat-slick hair, his lower lip red and torn from excessive biting, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded, with what looks like tear stains around them and on his cheeks.

Fuck. He really has messed up, hasn’t he?

Madara tries not to show hints of the guilt clawing at him as he finishes up, channeling iryo chakra into overstrained muscles as an afterthought.

“You’ve got enough control for iryo jutsu now?” Tobirama asks.

“I had to heal all the papercuts I got this week, didn’t I?” Madara quips. “Kept trying and it worked. I can knead the chakra well enough to heal minor wounds, but not much else.”

“I see.”

Save for that, Tobirama stays silent, careful to avoid Madara’s gaze. Once Madara is done, he moves to pick out the lightest yukata he can find in the closet, lays it around Tobirama’s shoulders, coaxing him to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?” Tobirama asks, bewildered.

“Dressing you,” Madara answers simply.

“Madara, you should leavー _hey!_ ”

An abrupt yank, and Madara has hoisted Tobirama half over his shoulder, making sure there’s no pressure on sensitive areas and holding him steady as he scrambles in his grip and wraps his arms around Madara’s neck.

“What the fuck, Madara!”

“Ah, there’s the pissed off tone I know and love,” Madara drawls, tugging off the bedding and the pillows.

For the satisfaction of annoying Tobirama further (and, frankly, because Tobirama seems too weak to support himself on his own), Madara keeps carrying him all the way to the bathroom to throw the sheets into the laundry pile, then the whole time it takes him to find a new set and remake the bed one-handed. All accompanied by a litany of curses and half-hearted attempts at strangulation, which only makes Madara laugh.

“I hate you,” Tobirama hisses with when Madara finally places him back on the bed.

“Now that isn’t a proper thank you.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“See,” Madara says, “ _I’m_ actually making an effort to be kind. So I’m going to let that go. Now stop pouting and go to sleep. I dread to think what hour it is.”

“I do not pout,” Tobirama says, doing just that.

“I’ve deactivated all the morning alarm seals,” Madara ignores him, reaching out with his senses to check again, “so you actually get proper rest. And no lucid dreaming fuckery, Tobirama, I’m warning you.”

Tobirama scoffs. “You can show up late if you want, but I’ll be at the training ground at six,” he says firmly, “I’ll manage.” Before Madara can argue, he goes on, “Please, Madara, just go. I’ll meet you tomorrow whenever.”

The idiot. The gall he has, to imply Madara would just leave him be without proper care.

Granted, his wish to provide said care has earned him no gratitude as of yet, but Madara doesn’t mind. He’s dealt with worse petulanceーhe’s got Izuna for a little brother after all.

He grabs a change of clothes for himself from the shelf in the closet he’s reserved for his own things. It’s a temporary measure, and yet part of him can’t help imagine how in the future, they might just end up living together after all.

_Might,_ Madara firmly reminds himself, even as he thinks back to the past week and how easy it was to fall into a pleasant routine living alongside the person he’d thought he’d never harbor anything but dislike for. How delightful their bickering is and how surprisingly peaceful Tobirama looks when out of the work environment and in his comfort zone, never as far from the title of the White Demon than when he gets excited about one seal idea or another and proceeds to rant about it much like an exuberant child.

Madara wipes away the disgustingly sweet smile tugging at his lips with a scowl before he turns back to the Senju in question, lying stiffly on the bed, arms crossed and glaring death at him.

“No need for such a grumpy face,” Madara chides him, “now, I’m not one to disrespect your privacy so I either sleep on the couch or on the bed. You call.”

Tobirama blinks at him, then scrunches his nose. “Why would youー” he says. “I’m still all sweaty. And... that.” He grimaces, looking away.

“Oh, Pure Lands above,” Madara says, rolling his eyes, "What a tragedy. _However_ shall I deal.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ll take a long soak in the morning, Tobirama, after you rest. And I can help cool you down as you sleep, at least.”

Honestly, it isn’t that hard to gauge Tobirama’s answer long before he’s done faking contemplation, layered with even more intense glaring and a put-upon huff before he gives up.

“Fine. With me,” he mutters under his breath, scooting over to let Madara onto the bed and proceeding to use his chest as a makeshift pillow even when there’s a soft, comfortable one right _there._ They usually only end up in this position close to morning, with Tobirama cuddling up to him in his sleep, so this is one hell of a surprise.

With their chakras mingling on instinct, with Tobirama sighing with contentment and not exhaustion this time, Madara decides that it’s a pleasant one.

“Thank you,” Tobirama whispers against his chest as he settles down.

“Of course,” he says, a bit too rushed. “Of course I’d help.”

“No. I mean thank you, for not... listening to me.”

It takes a few moments for Madara to comprehend the meaning of his words. “Oh!” Madara’s breath hitches. And there’s the heat of another blush creeping up, one that, thankfully, Tobirama is unable to see. He clears his throat. “Right.”

He doesn’t know what else to say, what else to do other than relish in the sweet satisfaction of having made the right choice. The only right choice, obviously, though echoes of irrational temptation still linger in Madara’s mind, bound to reappear in some dream or other. On a whim, he blurts out the next thing that comes to his mind as Tobirama buries his head further into the crook of his neck.

“And you _really_ have the _audacity_ to claim you’re not touch-starved? Did no one ever teach you that lying is a bad thing?”

Slowly, Tobirama raises his head to face Madara with another murderous glare.

“Madara,” he says, “may I remind you that what just happened is, for all intents and purposes, your fault?”

That catches Madara off guard. “Of-of course,” he says.

“Well, it’s only because I’m barely able to move that I’m not making your life hell for forgetting to tell me such an important detail,” Tobirama says, voice calm and level in contrast to the look in his eyes.

“I thought youーI know I should have!” Madara tries to excuse himself before mentally kicking himself for it. “I did say I’m sorry?”

_Did I?_ Madara thinks back, panicked. No, no, of course he _must_ have, though he can’t exactly remember Tobirama saying he’s forgiven.

“You did,” Tobirama concedes, “but I really don’t think I’m able to forgive you just yet.”

“All right,” Madara grumbles, “hint taken, I’ll shut up. And do something?” he offers. “To make up for it?”

And then, Tobirama smirks. At the same accursed moment, Madara catches on to the subtle amusement radiating from Tobirama’s chakra, barely there but definitely the warm, pulsating tinge that always perks up in Tobirama’s signature whenever he’s messing with him.

_Fuck,_ Madara thinks as Tobirama’s next words prove as much.

“Well, there is something that might tempt me to forgive you,” he says, feigning nonchalance, “and _not_ complain to Izuna of my _great_ misfortune and get him to take my side and torture you with possibly life-threatening pranks for the rest of your days.”

Madara narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t. You fucking wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Madara doesn’t actually want to test him, knowing the lengths Tobirama can go to to enact his revenge. He’s sure Hashirama still has nightmares from the time Tobirama quite literally glued him to the chair and deprived him of sugar, caffeine and booze on top of that, for the hours upon hours it took Hashirama to complete all of the paperwork he had procrastinated on. An inconvenience for anyone else, for Hashirama it had been utter torture.

“What,” Madara glowers, “what do you want, you menace?”

Tobirama smiles, a sweet, soft smile that doesn’t match the threat glinting in his eyes. He reaches for something on the floor, only for his hand to return holding the atrocious wooden statuette Madara had been hoping he’s forgotten about.

“I promise to forgive all your transgressions if you let Dara-chan onto the bedside table.”

“You gave it a fucking _name?_ ” Madara has to consciously restrain himself from shoving Tobirama off the bed and wiping off that self-satisfied grin for good measure.

“I did,” Tobirama shrugs, “something to match it’s cuteness.”

“ _I am_ not _cute!_ ”

“I never said you were. But Dara-chan is.”

Madara splutters, managing a strangled, “Fuck you!” before settling on something more eloquent, “If I let that monstrosity on there you won’t just forgive me, Senju, you will owe me one. Preferably two. Preferably infinite favors for however long I have to be subjected to... this.” He points at the offending thing, ignoring the thoughts springing from the implication in his words.

_Might be every day of his life,_ his brain starts singing the same annoying tune. _If this works out._

“Just the one,” Tobirama concedes, placing the statuette onto the table, conveniently at Madara’s side of the bed so he has the pleasure of waking up to the sight each morning. Marvelous. “And you’re forgiven.” With that, Tobirama buries his head in the crook of Madara’s neck once more, always nestling as the little spoon even though he’s taller, the gesture setting Madara’s heart racing, his face warming with a flush he can’t quite control.

“And you’re still touch-starved,” he grumbles, wrapping his arms tighter around his idiot soulmate.

“Shut up and sleep,” Tobirama mumbles, sounding half-asleep himself, “It’s just ‘cause... body temperature.

Madara chuckles, running his hands through messy locks of hair as Tobirama’s chakra lulls gradually into a calmer, rhythmic flow. “Whyever else.”

**TOBIRAMA**

Tobirama thought nothing could compare to the embarrassment of waking up next to Madara after last night’s humiliating display (though admittedly, the feeling passed quickly after the quiet, awkward breakfast that culminated in them both breaking down into hysterical laughter).

Their long overdue training session, however, proves Tobirama wrong.

“What do you think?” Madara asks, practically beaming with pride after demonstrating his ‘homework’ and seamlessly guiding water from and back into various leaves, plants, even branches. And he didn’t stop there; apparently, Madara has taken quite the liking to the unfamiliar technique, practicing it and drawing on the knowledge of Water Style he had before during the week. The result is a flawed, yet surprisingly smooth technique which extracted and replaced the water from the grass in a several feet radius around him, which damn near leaves Tobirama speechless.

Speechless and doubly ashamed of his earlier attempts to, at the very least, avoid burning down every leaf he touched with chakraーto no avail whatsoever. That awakens a childish, envious side of him Tobirama had thought to be long buried by sound self-awareness.

Apparently not. And it makes being happy at Madara’s progress just that tad bit more difficult.

Tobirama sighs, more annoyed at his conflicting emotions than anything else, and offers Madara a smile.

“I am,” he says, “not unimpressed. Good job.”

Madara scoffs. “Gods damn you. Not unimpressed my ass. I can sense your chakra, you know,” he calls Tobirama out like the merciless bastard that he is, “every single little emotion. Very flattered by your amazement, Tobiramaーyou have my utmost gratitude.”

The smirk and the mock bow infuriate Tobirama further, and he chooses to do what he does best right now, using a couple base hand signs in a bid for control and producing a more or less directed blast of fire.

“Think fast,” he says, watching Madara dodge it, effortless and graceful as ever in battle as he never is in everyday life.

“Now that,” Madara taunt, landing a few feet away from Tobirama, “was atrocious. I really can’t believe you made this little progress, _genius_.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “You and me both,” he mutters, dodging Madara’s shuriken assault as they slide into a fairly casual taijutsu match, “it seems I’ll need more time than I’d expected to get used to your reserves.”

“I’m sure you’ll get a hang of it,” Madara says, light on his feet as he takes on an offensive, though his punches are less impressive than his effortless, dance-like footwork. Tobirama has to remind himself to keep his eyes from straying. “With my stellar guidance, of course, and provided you follow all my instructions to the letter.”

“Mm, and call you Sensei?” He almost gets a hit in before he has to dodge again.

“Preferably.”

“Keep dreaming.”

Tobirama tries for a kick to that over-inflated head. Madara kneels out of the way, coming up at him with a kunai which Tobirama blocks with his wrist guardsーwooden ones, but specifically constructed for him by Hashirama with the Mokuton, so they don’t budgeーbefore they leap away from each other.

“Stubborn. In any case, you can still practice with the Sharingan while you’re taking baby steps in Fire Release.” Madara smirks, hands forming an all-too familiar seal. “ _After_ you indulge me in a little dance.”

Out of nowhereーwell, technically, from the Naka right beside them, but it’s definitely something Tobirama doesn’t expect in the slightestーa semi-controlled, semi-chaotic blast of water shoots Tobirama’s way. With no time to get out of it’s range, he concentrates his chakra as well as he can and shunshins away, failing spectacularly as he overcharges it, ends up way farther than he’d intended and crushes headfirst into a tree on the edge of the clearing.

"Gods _dammit_.”

Madara’s laugh reaches his ears, as well as the sound of another water wave, one he’s able to circumvent easier this time despite his head ringing from the impact.

“Impressive,” Tobirama calls as Madara readies another attack. The word does make him pause for but a brief second, and Tobirama wonders just how Madara would receive it if he were a lot more liberal with his praise. Something to think about later. “But nowhere near perfect. That’s just a bit more controlled than my large-scale jutsus.”

“Hah! If you can call them that.” Madara’s next attack is easier still to avoid, now that Tobirama is accustomed to the way he manipulates the water. Far different from Tobirama’s own style, more forceful, always with water that’s already at hand rather than creating it with his own chakra. “Mine is a near-perfect Water Bullet and you’re just shooting explosions everywhere. Honestly, I would have expected more after an entire week.”

“ _I_ would have expected you to be independent of pre-existing water sources.”

“On my way there. And don’t think I forgot how you almost burned down your house playing with pre-existing candlelight,” Madara taunts.

"Bastard,” Tobirama hisses, clashing a would-be fireball with the next assault, clouding their surroundings in a blanket of steam. As it is, his hand seals produce a jagged wall of fire that makes Tobirama’s teeth grate from the stupid imperfection of it all. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t achieve at least good results at anything he tried. “And you’d do well to be careful. Your chakra expenditure is inefficient.”

“I’m trying to test how large your reserves are,” Madara’s voice echoes from the mist, its direction untraceable. Tobirama focuses, letting chakra bleed into his eyes and color the world into vivid clarity, spotting Madara near the river bank, gathering yet more water for what looks to be twice as large an attack as before.

The idiot.

"You'll be testing that for a long time, Madara," Tobirama warns, "and I can just tell you. Almost twice as large as Izuna's, significantly less potent than yours."

Madara doesn't listen.

To be fair, Tobirama realizes how exhilarating it must be for Madara, to have water bend to his command this way, since he’s had this extreme affinity for the element his whole life. A chakra nature so unlike the others in that water would practically glue to Tobirama when he was a child, the basic Water Summoning technique allowing him to conjure water from anywhere, be it ground or river or sky, something that came naturally to him but seemed alien to all the adults in the clan.

But with heightened affinity for water, of course, came the problems.

Madara’s next jutsu does hit twice as hard, and Tobirama is more liberal with his chakra the next time he hurls fire to counter it. Nevertheless, there’s a second of sudden yet mild pain that alerts him to a cut on his shoulder he’s gotten sometime during the fight, a slight, uncomfortable tug on the drying blood that surrounds it.

It’s nothing major. Nothing dangerous, but his senses are immediately hit with confusion, shock and swiftly growing horror.

“What the _fuck?!”_ Madara screams, dissipating the jutsu mid-clash, as Tobirama tries and fails to do the same with his flames. Madara jumps out of the way and lands in a crouch in the middle of the clearing, staying there perfectly still and searching for Tobirama through the steam. “Tobirama, what happened? Tobirama!”

“I’m here.” He lands to kneel next to Madara, gripping him by the shoulders, wincing when he finds him shaking. “Calm down. I told you to be careful.”

_“Carefulーthat_ wasーwas that _blood_ that just caught in my jutsu, Tobirama?” Madara hisses, chakra roiling with worry as he recoils from the touch. “No, wait, come here, let me heal it. Fuck. Did I do this? How? You told me I would have to completely lose control for this to happen!”

Tobirama sighs, instinctively leaning into the healing touch. “Calm down. You do. It’s nothing serious.” At Madara’s skeptical look, he goes on to explain. “I suppose it’s my turn to be sorry for not sharing all the details with you, but I really didn’t want to cause unnecessary worry.”

“So, what I _can_ suddenly kill someone if I summon water from a human fucking body?” Madara’s shaking intensifies. Tobirama melds his chakra into his hands, bringing them gently to Madara’s shoulders once more.

“No,” he says, “but there is a caveat. Going deeper into the body and manipulating any blood in the primary blood vessels, the veins or the arteriesーyou don’t have to worry about that, usually. That’s not going to happen unless you’re in extreme pain or having the worst panic attack of your life or as a semi-conscious last resort to survive,” Tobirama explains, thinking to the times it had happened to him.

Horrible times. Nightmares that still crept from his childhood memories into his dreams on some nights.

“You _can_ accidentally touch upon the insignificant blood vesselsーcapillaries and such, and only on open wounds. You’re unlikely to cause any lasting damage this way, but as I said, it’d do you well to be careful. You’re doing amazing as it is,” Tobirama knows his chakra should reflect the sincerity of his words, but sadly senses no response to it in Madara’s signature, “you just need to be aware of the sources you draw on a bit more. I can guide you through another larger-scale jutsu if you’d like.”

“No.” Madara shakes his head, averting his gaze. “No, no. Let’s justーlet’s just get to Sharingan training, all right? I’ll stick to simpler things. You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

It's saddening, seeing Madara so shaken, when he was doing everything right just before. Tobirama tightens the grip on his shoulders, channeling yet more chakra in hopes to curtail the shivering, but the action doesn’t make Madara any less tense.

"Just forget it,” Madara mutters, intent on staring down the ground.

* * *

  1. Tobirama doesn’t let go. Only tugs him closer, pulling him up to his feet as he moves to stand behind Madara, arms wrapped around his middleーthe kind of closeness that would have driven Tobirama insane just a few hours ago. He forcefully banishes those thoughts.  
“Follow my lead,” he says, as Madara throws him a confused look over his shoulder. Tobirama clasps Madara’s hands and brings them together into the ox sign. "It was just a little misstep, Madara. Let me help you try again."
  2. ~~Tobirama considers him, unsure of what to do. His instincts scream at him to do _something_ , to hug him or at least comfort Madara further, but he can’t bring himself to initiate the closeness. With the embarrassment of the night before still clawing at him, he finds himself complying before he can talk himself into exposing his vulnerabilities.~~  
 ~~"All right then. It's high time I did some Sharingan training anyway."~~



~~**Click[here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfBAiwRsOGfSY1XaTlumxjwoUg5xMJj3F9BuNKin1COLQbJTQ/viewform?usp=sf_link) to vote** ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen all things must be balanced so to counter Ama's awesomeness here's my silly doodle of Dara-chan the not completely hopeless idiot (that's a lie, IDIOT) for nobodys_perfect :3  
>   
> feel free to find me on [tumblr](http://louiserandom.tumblr.com) or on [the founders discord server](https://discord.gg/qRvra4P) where we basically spend all day screaming about the founders and creating the craziest headcanons just cause we can xD *whispers* go on, join our train wreck, I promise it's fun👀👀👀💕💕💕  
> and as always, a massive thank you for the read and your patience💙

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the read! :3
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://louiserandom.tumblr.com)
> 
> p.s. i will popularize the Idiots to Lovers tag for these two, i fucking SWEAR it


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